9: Thunderbirds Are Go: Counterpoint
by Math Girl
Summary: Back from the future, the boys struggle to change history, saving Earth from a cold, lifeless fate... and finding their missing sister.
1. Chapter 1

Hello. Me, again.. Thanks guys. :) Edited more.

**Counterpoint**

**1**

_Space, in the absolute centre of things, as usual-_

What it all came down to was balance. Did he want to find and restore Eos? Yes. Did he have to stop himself from racing down to the Island infirmary to get back to O'Bannon? _H*ll_, yeah. Was he needed on Thunderbird 7, Pac-Orbital and Mars, 700 FN? Clearly.

…But he was just one man, who could get more accomplished, much faster, from Thunderbird 5. Plus, the office commute was highly enjoyable. John rode the space elevator again like a fool. On the _outside_ of his nice, safe passenger capsule instead of its crash couch. Did have the forcefield expanded to cover him. Just wanted the view and that crazy-wild ride; out there in blackness, where stars burnt naked and fierce. No one but him ever did that, though Ridley had watched through his helmet cam, once.

Anyhow, he got to the station, leaving chaos and gravity back there on Earth like old, dirty clothes. Jaeger managed the docking process with some remote-flight assistance from John. Then, just as the space elevator came gliding up to her cradle, the astronaut let go his grip on its cable and rocketed free; watching the pod nudge home to her clamps.

"Capture," he murmured, to nobody else but an ocean of silent white stars.

Couldn't get in the usual way, but that was no actual problem. Triggering his exopod's ion thrusters, John crossed the slow-whirling transparent ring. Soared past sensors and comm masts, skimming over the giant words **THUNDERBIRD 5**, to slip in through his unblocked "back door".

"Danke, Mein Freund," said John to a blinking red dot on his wrist comm, breaking several pesky d*mn laws.

_-Gern geschehen-_ replied the AI, in a language that nobody spoke, anymore. _-Eos ist nicht hier-_

"Ja. Ich kenne," John muttered. He knew that Eos wasn't at home… but he meant to fix that, in a quick d*mn hurry.

Funnily enough, all systems were go and the airlock performed like a champ, despite having no one aboard but Mini-Max, for nearly a week. Felt longer to _him,_ but then, he'd spent six months subjective time away in the future. Scott and Lee, much longer than that.

Shoving useless minutiae out of his thoughts, John sped on inside. First recompressing, then getting the usual lemon-fresh decontamination hose-down. (Blame that one on Grandma. She'd picked all the scents.)

And, yeah. He had a thousand red-hot-right-the-h*ll-now emergencies screaming at him for instant attention… but it sure felt good to be home. Weightless, able to fly, and away from the messy distractions of Earth.

He shed his bright yellow exopod in the airlock, ordering 5's maintenance bots to have it returned to the launch tube for fueling. Mini-Max met him just inside the station's big central dome, beeping, chirping and flying wild loops.

"Good to see you, too, Max," said the redhead, removing his helmet. Small, nearly subconscious puffs of his suit's guidance system steered him across the dome. "Need you to get with Jaeger… you'll require a language interface… and help him complete a 4-dimensional beacon he's building. Have to use one of Brains' tesseract portals. Check the shed."

Max buzzed past his head. Chirping assent, the tiny white robot shot away like a very determined firefly. That seen to, John relaxed, letting the dome rotate freely around him. Because, once again, it was good to be home.

All of the station's systems checked in, next; showing green across the board, if a little weird, time-wise. But, yeah. Good to go. Slipping his earpiece back in, IR's space monitor got straight to work.

"Gordon Tracy, from Thunderbird 5. I'm upstairs. Scott and Captain Taylor should be with you in... fifteen-point-two-three minutes. Dad, Alan, Brains and Piper are scheduled to show up within the next hour." (After a prolonged stay in the future. Just _how_ long, depended on the perils of transforming Mars.) "Sit-rep, Gordon."

His younger brother's image appeared in midair beside John, followed by holos of Scott and Captain Taylor. Medical data for Virgil and Josh were quickly uploaded, as Gordon said,

"Hey, John. Thanks for getting back in touch. It's, uh… good to hear a friendly voice. Can you talk to the GDF, please? Get 'em off my ass? Their C.O. wants a frickin' statement, and I don't have _time."_

John nodded.

"On it, Gordon. Hang tight."

Switching channels, he hailed the GDF light cruiser.

"IF-28 from Thunderbird 5. Lieutenant Rice, John Tracy. Do you copy?"

A government holo showed up, with all the usual budget-cut skips and distortions.

"Thunderbird 5, Lieutenant Rice. I'm getting no cooperation from your field agents, Captain Tracy. Need an update on the status of Captain Clarke and his crew, Sir."

_Sir?_ Well… yeah, he'd got promoted after that business with the deflected alien impactor… and rank had its privileges. Might as well make the most of it, especially considering that a small, muted image of Ned Tedford was now up there, too. John slapped a traffic sorting program on Pac-Orbital's woes, swiped Ned to one side with a polite "International Rescue, please hold" and then got back to Rice.

"Lieutenant, our medic is doing all that he can to stabilize and save the crew of YF-37. They're in the infirmary, getting triaged for treatment. Be advised that there are transmorphs present, as well."

"Yes, Sir," said Rice, unhappily. His holo had flickered right on beside that of Gordon. Not much older than John, the Space Corps lieutenant had brown hair and eyes, and a slight growth of beard. "I'm aware of that. I've been ordered to take them into custody, Sir. Straight from the top. International Rescue has been directed to stand down and not interfere. Transferring orders… _now."_

The emailed packet arrived with a brief, chiming _ping_, showing up in the dome's EM field as a bright-red, rotating envelope. Great. Times like this, Scott got headaches and ulcers. John just went utterly clinical.

"Lieutenant Rice, I strongly advise against your intended action," he said. "Those shape-changers are extremely dangerous. Please inform Colonel Casey…"

"You'll have to do it yourself, Captain," said the grim junior officer. "I've been told to shut up and follow instructions."

Uh-huh. And any attempt to countermand a Colonel's orders would land John and Rice both before a military tribunal. Fun. Good times. Still, Dad was on his way. Maybe he'd have better luck with the GDF dragon lady?

Scott pinged him, next, looking grumpy and tired.

"John, what's the situation in there? Should we go in armed up?"

Lee's holo was busily polishing "Bessie", his trusty and well-loved laser rifle.

"Negative, Scott," said the astronaut, adding, "Or… pack a few surprises but keep them well hidden. Casey wants her own people handling those transmorphs, not us."

Scott's heavy brown eyebrows slammed together like a couple of runaway freight trains.

"_Seriously?_ What the h*ll is she… never mind."

Like John, the former fighter pilot still had strangling ties to the GDF, and orders were orders; "inactive reserve", or not. Better to shut up than say something stupid. "Understood, Thunderbird 5. Tracy, out."

That problem sorted, John next slipped a search program of Brains' into the station's main scanner. Using the best telemetry that Hackenbacker could come up with _after_ the fact, the search program was intended to track and find…

_Ping._

"Gotcha," John murmured, expanding the program's holo-sphere to bring a small, blinking red dot into focus. "C-SIR2149, Doradus Cluster. _Hunh_. Rogue massive planet heading this way at sixty-two percent light… currently eighty-point-five light years away, ejected by some kind of black hole collision. Looks like we've got our bogie."

Then,

"John, Darling?"

Penelope popped up on one of his last free channels, cradling Sherbert and smiling.

"Are you there?"

"Yes. I'm here, Lady Penelope," he admitted. "How can I help you? That, uh… _doesn't_ involve parties, balls, soirees or Ascot, I mean." In any way, shape, form or nightmare.

Her image reflected nothing but saintly, designer-clad fondness. _Hah_.

"Don't be such a stick, dear boy. I might have called merely to chat, mightn't I?"

John blinked at her. In a wary, low voice he said,

_"Right._ Only, it's a little hectic, up here, so if there's nothing pressing, Penny..."

The lovely blonde noblewoman nuzzled the top of Bertie's head. _Better him than me,_ thought John, who'd had to put up with the same treatment at more than one photo-op. Her ladyship pouted, saying,

"Very well, I shall come directly to the point, John darling. It is simply Kayo. She appears to have gone missing. Captain Rigby is quite beside himself with concern, as is dear Grandmama. And, as you are so close to our Tanusha, I thought that perhaps you might aid me in locating her? Hmm?"

_?_ thought John, beginning to scan for his sister's wrist comm. About the same time, his private line buzzed on Ridley's priority-access channel. _Annnd_ a knot of freighters was about to collide with each other and the Pac-Orbital docking ring. Nice.

Had Eos been present, he would have had her take some of those calls in mock-John format, as she'd first done while trying to kill him, back when life was simple. Only, his AI was missing, too. And Jaeger was about as convincing as a cardboard movie standee. Maybe less.

John took a deep breath and prioritized. To Gordon, he said,

"Focus on saving lives. Let the GDF capture those shape-changers. We're not law enforcement, Gordon."

To Rice: "Understood, Lieutenant. Your security detail is free to come aboard Thunderbird 7, once I've notified her pilots. Stand by."

Then, flipping channels to address Scott and Lee in the maintenance flitter,

"Proceed with caution, Guys. You'll be three-deep in GDF peacekeepers. All they want is those transmorphs. Gordon's data indicate that most of them were subdued by our clones… but stay alert and keep out of WorldGov's way. Casey's not playing."

Over to Thunderbird 7, before Scott could answer, John said,

"Thunderbird 7, from Thunderbird 5. Sam, Mark… this is John. I've got a GDF cruiser security team who'd like to remove those prisoners. Let them in, please."

(Meanwhile, got the freighter tangle sorted by diverting six of them into another shipping lane. Ned was still yelling on mute, though, and Gladys had dropped some more petals.)

His brothers' clones popped up in holo form, crowding John's view field still further. Sam (Synthetic Alternate Me, as Scott had tagged him) nodded once.

"Very well, John Tracy. Local authority shall not be interfered with. How long do they intend to remain aboard ship?"

"Uh… I'd guess an hour, at the outside. I'll keep them motivated. In the meantime, I think I found what you're looking for." And, with that, John forwarded the data on C-Sir2149.

Beside Sam, Virgil's clone alerted. Named Mark, (because, Virgil Mark II) he was a paler, unlived-in version of the big, husky cargo pilot. Voice sounded pretty much the same, though.

"Eighty-point-five light years away? With the Alcubierre Drive at maximum power, we could reach that distance in sixteen months, John."

Well…

"Yeah," John agreed, reflexively doing the maths in his head. "Closer to seventeen months, actually, but that's good. Seventeen's a prime number, with all sorts of interesting tricks and behaviours. Anyhow, Scott and Captain Taylor will be there to manage the peacekeepers for you. And, uh… listen. Could one of you stand by at medical with a molecular disruptor? Just in case there's a patient that's too far gone to save?"

The disruptors scanned and recorded whatever they atomized, meaning that copies could be produced at need, once Brains built the proper machinery. Call it a fail-safe. Mark was already unstrapping to float away from his seat.

"On my way, John," he responded. Of all the former maintenance drones… himself, Sam, Matt and Sylvie… Mark had become the most human. The most _Tracy_.

No luck on the Kayo scan, but John was not out of options. Have to try harder, was all. Sending Ned and Gladys a little smooth jazz hold music, he next picked up his private line.

"Ridley?" John asked, feeling a lot of stuff that didn't want to stand forth and get named. "Are you okay?"

On Earth, she did not wear a helmet or snoopy cap. Just a dark-flowered tank top and shorts, with her long red-brown hair fastened back in a braid.

"Hey, Tracy," she answered, smiling at him with all the force of an incoming asteroid. "I'm fine. Well… better than I was. Holes patched, cuts stitched, bones welded and almost ready for action. Best vacation, ever, right? What about you? How was Mars?"

John considered. (While hanging at mid-dome, monitoring events effing _everywhere. _Trouble up in the arctic, now, too. Missing weather station crew)

"It was busy," he admitted. "And lonely. I, uh… I missed us. Missed me being around you. Not a situation I'd care to repeat. So… if you'd like to make things permanent, Captain, I, um… I would agree to that. With rings and paperwork. You know… everything. Me, always. If, you know… you'd like that arrangement."

Ridley's mouth dropped open. Evidently, he'd floored her completely. Then she flushed, going pink clear up to the roots of her hair, big grey eyes starting to flood. Away off camera, John could hear somebody whooping aloud. Kraft, probably. Great. Just what he needed. An _audience_.

On the bright side, O'Bannon seemed not to notice.

"That's… the worst d*mn proposal I've ever heard, Tracy. And, the answer is yes. Absolutely. Forever and always, if I have to climb up there myself and kidnap you. _When_?"

Something inside of him felt like explosions of light… and Gordon was back on the line.

"ASAP," said the space monitor, very calm on the outside. "Virgil's got paperwork on file, already. I'll pull some strings for him and…for us." Felt good to say that. Us. Together with Ridley O'Bannon. A couple.

Then,

"Thunderbird 5, from 7 Med Centre. John, it's me," called Gordon, sounding tense and concerned. "We got a problem."


	2. Chapter 2

'Allo! Thank you for reading and reviewing, you guys. It's late, but I will edit and respond to comments, first thing tomorrow. :) Freshly edited, but, hey... work in progress, right? At 2 AM, I cant catch them all. ;)

**2**

_In Thunderbird 7, the no-longer prototype; just a bit earlier-_

The sleek silver Bird was very large, and so was her main forward launch bay. Even so, with a damaged troopship, IR's parked maintenance flitter and swarms of GDF ambulance bots dashing around, the situation was far from optimal.

"Gettin' a mite crowded," Taylor observed, ducking a dark-blue ambulance pod. It shot past them at high speed, running sirens and lights; nearly creating a fresh pair of customers in the process. Nor were these racing med-bots the only distraction.

A Global-1 cruiser had hooked up outside, docking to one of Thunderbird 7's main boarding hatches. Able-bodied personnel could move between ships in that way, but casualty-laden mechanicals were stuck with the busy launch bay. On the bright side, motion in three full dimensions made dodging traffic much easier… so long as you paid close attention.

Being a belt, suspenders and super-glue type of guy, Scott Tracy kept his helmet on until _after_ he and Taylor had worked their way clear of that noisy staging area, into an empty corridor. Accidents happened. In fact, they were his life's work. Scott just didn't want them happening to _him._

Keeping a low profile, he purposely avoided meeting Lieutenant Rice. Partly because Lee was armed with an unregistered laser weapon, and partly because he wanted no contact with Colonel Casey. Not even third hand. Too risky.

Watching for unexplained people and misplaced machines, Scott glided along through the passageway; using grab-holds and bulkhead kicks to work his way over to Medical. Just behind him, Lee was running a scan, muttering bleak and exotic obscenities.

"Not finding anything?" Scott hazarded, glancing back at his craggy, scowling uncle.

"Naw," Lee drawled, blue eyes never leaving that conjured scan-globe. "Findin' too _much_, Spence. With all a' them GDF types around, plus three spacecraft an' twenty-nine medical evac pods, don't nuthin' in here stand out as unusual. Them shapeshifters could hide out as sumthin' small an' offline, like a battery pack or a Goddam toaster. We'd never notice, till they decide ta make their move."

Scott felt his mouth tighten into a grim, hard line. He was not a man who lightly accepted obstructions. Having been captured and held by the devious Hiros, who'd stolen his form to infiltrate Tracy Island, he very much wanted them gone.

"Once the GDF wraps things up, it should get a lot less chaotic in here, Sir. For now, let's concentrate on running interference for Gordon."

Lee killed his scan-globe and nodded.

"Stay alert, Son. Just checked out y'r brother's update, an' it looks like YF-37 was missin' fifteen crewmen, but the security team's only got thirteen a' them transmorphs in custody."

"Great," Scott growled, swooping into the med centre from above. "So, we've got at least two of them in here, someplace."

…And 'here' was a really big spaceship. Changing the subject, the pilot said,

"Sir, see what you can do to help Gordon, if you don't mind. I'll go play twenty questions with the GDF legal crew."

"Ya questionin' m' diplomatic skills, boy?" Lee demanded, faking a scowl. Truthfully, he'd gotten the better end of that deal, and he knew it.

"Just keeping the peace, Sir," Scott explained, gliding toward a stiff, unhappy female in uniform. _"Somebody's_ got to debrief."

Lee watched him go, muttering,

"B'lieve I'll keep m' briefs right here in m' trousers, where they belong." Then, swooping over to Gordon and Sylvie, "Evenin' youngsters. Spencer's over yonder, makin' nice with the feds. Whut c'n I do ta help out?"

The aquanaut looked relieved to see him; maybe just glad of another pair of willing hands. Gave Lee a shaky smile, pushing at his drifting sand-coloured hair with the back of one wrist.

"Thank you, Sir. If you'll keep an eye on Virgil and Josh, I'll finish up with these last three GDF patients."

Taylor gave him a friendly nod.

"I'm on it, Godfrey," he said, clipping his suit harness to a tether at the Critical Care station.

Victor and Jake hung before him in separate, pale-blue retention fields, being treated by medical nanobots. Vic had a deep gash slicing into the muscle and bone of one shoulder. Jake had been run clear through; stabbed by something hefty and barbed, it looked like. Worse than that; both young men had been injured _while wearing supposedly impact- and bullet-proof armour._

Lee uttered a low, baffled whistle, watching the long row of shifting numbers that detailed Victor and Jacob's battle to stay on this side of the dirt.

"I ain't tellin' you fellers what ta do. Ain't m' place ta say nuthin'," he observed, conversationally. "Only, it ain't like a Tracy ta run away from no battle. Even honorary Tracys is well known ta finish whatever they start," he added, glancing aside at limp, silent Jake.

The injured young men weren't conscious, of course; but that didn't mean that his words weren't getting through… and there wasn't much Taylor liked better than an audience.

"Seein' as how we're likely ta be here awhile, fellers… I ever tell ya 'bout th' time m' flitter broke down, 'tween th' southwest solar array an' Shadow-Alpha? No? Well… sit back an' get comfortable, then, 'cause that's about as close as I ever come ta punchin' m' ticket. See, this meteor storm set in whilst I was out there trekkin' f'r home, an'…"

Gordon and Sylvie half-listened as they tended to three very battered Marines, treating concussions, a snapped femur and one deeply lacerated palm. Meanwhile, Scott's voice rose and fell in the near distance, as he dealt with that GDF legal officer, freeing Gordon to work.

Sylvie was a lot of help, catching on with surprising speed and minimal explanation. She looked almost exactly like Kayo, too; only paler, with fewer laugh lines. Same big green eyes, though. Same leopard-fierce determination and courage.

"She is not your sister in blood, this Kayo?" Sylvie asked him, as though she knew that he'd been comparing them.

Gordon looked over from cleaning and stitching the palm wound.

"Kayo's been our sister as long as I can remember," he told her, adding (to the Marine), "You'll want to go straight to a corpsman on Global-1, Billings. This'll keep you closed up and tidy, till the doctors can do something permanent. Just, don't try to flex it, or my beautiful stitching 'll pop. That's some quality embroidery, right there."

The bronze-skinned young woman gave him a warm, slightly lopsided smile.

"But, that's my gun hand, Gordon," she protested.

Gordon Tracy smiled back. The corporal had gotten that cut seizing the blade of a transmorph before it could puncture one of her buddies.

"Not for a couple of days, it isn't," he corrected, handing Billings a packet of aspirin tabs. Floating beside them, Scanlon kidded,

"You hoist me, Billings, and _I'll_ do all the shooting." He was the guy with a greenstick-fractured left femur. Brutal twisting damage, from something inhumanly powerful.

The other one, Conroy, was too stunned to talk. _Him,_ Gordon had stabilised for rapid transport to Global-1, just as soon as an empty ambulance pod turned up.

"Only place you three are being carried is sickbay," the sandy-blond aquanaut snorted, adding, "Thought they trained you guys in bootcamp not to shake hands with swords and break stubborn walls with your head."

Having done some reserve-time in WASP, himself, Gordon was always ready to rib the Marines. Billings grinned at him, showing perfectly even white teeth.

"Any time you wanna go a few rounds, Squid, we'll take you on!"

The blood-smeared aquanaut had a slightly flirtatious comeback for that. Was about to say it, too. Only then, the power cut off with a sudden sharp squeal and a thump. Just like that, they were entombed. The lights failed, except for a couple of widely spaced battle lanterns. Life support gave a last, feeble hiss and then quit. The spacecraft was plunged into utter silence, punctured by distant, confused shouting.

Gordon took a deep breath. Staying calm, he did his best to reassure the uniformed patients in front of him.

"S'okay, guys… nothing to worry about. Just a crossed wire, or something." Next, the medic felt for his wrist comm. Working by feel, he opened the channel for IR's space station and said,

"Thunderbird 5 from 7 Med Centre. John, it's me. We got a problem."


	3. Chapter 3

Back, again. Thank you for the comments and suggestions, Tikatu, Creative Girl, Thunderbird Shadow, Whirl Girl and Bow Echo. :) Hi, Izzy Bizzy Fizzy. ;) Will edit directly I've done running errands.

**3**

_Thunderbird 7, out in the darkened Med Centre-_

The dim, yellow glow of wall-mounted battle lanterns provided enough light to see by, once you got used to the sudden change. Their batteries would not last forever, though… and neither would those of the Critical Care station, where Virgil and Josh hung suspended in bubbles of low-powered force.

Gordon could hear the ship's air beginning to move, meaning that Thunderbird 7 was starting to decompress, fast. From the launch bay, most likely. His helmet still floated right there on a harness strap. Thinking quickly, the aquanaut wrestled it free of its hook and jammed it over his head. Had to switch from wrist- to helmet-comm but kept right on talking to John.

"We've powered down," he blurted, as Sylvie and Captain Taylor got those wounded Marines into survival gear; Lee joking around, Sylvie using that mind-thing of hers to keep them all soothed and cooperative. Neat trick.

Gordon looked hurriedly around the big medical centre. Scott had been talking to the GDF legal officer. Might have just gone off to fill out some forms, or something… but he wasn't in sight… and Lee had sort of casually switched Bessie off safety. You know, just in case.

"Copy that, Gordon," said John, sounding perfectly calm and business-like. "I'll get Pac-Orbital to force-shield the launch bay and hunt for spaced casualties. Also, Max will jack into the system to find out what's happened, and I'm sending help. Stand by."

Gordon nodded. Like everyone else, he'd switched on his helmet lamp, filling the medical centre with lances and ovals of pale, shifting light; making shadows tremble and lean.

"Got it, John. Thanks. Standing by."

Someone else swooped into the shadowy cabin, then. Another clone; this one looking a whole bunch like Virgil, only without all those scattered grey hairs. Instantly transfixed by six helmet beams (and one glittering crimson target lock) the clone raised both hands palm-outward to show his peaceful intent. Floating down and across the medical centre, he called,

"Lee Taylor and Gordon, I have been sent here by John, who is the template for Maintenance-2. This one before you is Mark, Maintenance-3. I am here to provide assistance. Please do not end this body, as returning to life is…"

"No fun?" Taylor suggested, switching Bessie back to safe carry while he reached out to brake the clone's rapid glide.

Mark appeared to consider, as he and Captain Taylor hit the deck and bounced off.

"I am still learning which things are considered 'fun', Captain," he admitted. "But I do not think that biological pod re-formation qualifies."

"Prob'ly not, at that," Taylor grunted. "Reg'lar birth ain't all it's cracked up ta be, neither… but most of us don't get but one a' those." Then, "Seen Spence around anywheres, Morty?"

The clone's heavy black eyebrows lifted in surprise. Only _persons_ earned a wrong name from Captain Taylor. Only family. This glad, brand-new person smiled a bit, saying,

"No, Captain. I have not, but…"

Then, with a sound between howl, roar and avalanche, something else shot into the room; tearing straight through a too-narrow hatch. Big and unstable, it altered shape continually. Dozens of razor-edged pincers and blades burst through its chitinous hide, oozing slime. Eyes opened up all over its surface, their shape and brown colour, the GDF lawyer's.

She struggled in the transmorph's clawed grip; suit and helmet cracked wide open and jetting globules of blood. Scott was held fast, as well. He'd been caught by one leg, which was twisted at an awful, unnatural angle, booted foot facing backward.

The med centre erupted with shouts, crashes and roars as everything happened… everyone acted… at once.

The Marines and cloned Tracys kicked themselves into the air for a better sightline and shot. Taylor surged forward, as well, yelling instructions. Thinking like a medic, a rescuer, Gordon placed himself directly between that thing and his helpless patients, Virgil and Josh.

Bessie sizzled and hissed as Lee opened fire. Scott had wrestled a flare gun off of his harness. Gritting his teeth against mind-blasting pain, the injured pilot aimed the flare's muzzle straight at his shrieking, protean captor.

Both Sylvie and Mark lashed out with tight-beam molecular disruptors, carving holes in transmorph, bulkhead and deck. The Marines fanned out overhead, with even the half-conscious Conroy trying to help. Mini-Max blazed through the upper hatchway seconds later, his cutting torch lit up and sparking. Lee carved a few hunks off that charging _kani,_ freeing the GDF lawyer.

Then the emergency flare gun went off. Meant to be used as a deep-space distress signal, it had a very powerful kick and a nearly sun-like, intense orange glare. All at once blinded, with a non-combatant floating and kicking at mid-chamber, no one could shoot. Mini-Max darted in close, but his cutting torch was meant for delicate repairs. It burnt through part of the limb holding Scott, until the roaring _kani_ grew a sudden new mouth and snapped Max in half with a burst of crunched metal and showering sparks.

Gordon still had his plasma cutter, which was next to useless in the hands of a blind man. Then Captain Taylor yelled,

"Haptic feedback, Godfrey! _Use y'r d*mn suit!"_

… which took just a hurried and panting voice command to make happen. Just like that, a tactile map of the room flowered onto his chest, back and arms, and Gordon could "see" once again.

The transmorph appeared as a lashing, high-pressure hot spot, just above his right hip. Gordon reoriented, set his plasma torch for high power. Lee was a stinging swipe across his left ribs, heading chest-ward. Didn't want to hit _him_ or the Marines, who showed up as a cluster of bruises crossing the aquanaut's high upper back.

Taking careful aim, Gordon and Lee both fired at once. Must've hit something important, because the blob of pressure and heat on his waist divided to twin writhing contusions. Something else (Scott, maybe) went brushing across his abdomen like a candle flame. Heat indicated speed, Gordon realized. Pressure meant nearness. Size was… well, how the h*ll _big_… and he was beginning to adapt to "seeing" through haptic touches to skin.

A large chunk of flailing monster was headed his way. Gordon could have just dodged the thing, but Virgil and Josh were unconscious; their forcefield intended to heal, not defend. So, the medic readied his torch again, keeping its blade well away from the critical care station. With a wordless yell, he kicked himself into the transmorph's path.

He'd practiced weightless maneuvers in sim, but this was a battle and (at the heart of him) Gordon wasn't a warrior. His finger was on the ignite button, that transmorph so close that it took up half of his chest. Then the cabin walls began flexing, power thumped on and…

_"Hold your fire, Son!"_ somebody shouted, sounding exactly like Dad. The Colonel? Or another d*mn shape changer?


	4. Chapter 4

Hi, guys. Another quick bit, because I've got story hammering inside of my head. Thank you for reading. =) Edited.

**4**

_Thunderbird 7, out in the damaged Med Centre-_

Gordon Tracy wavered a little but held his position. Did not hit ignite. Did stay between that big, bloodied transmorph and two helpless patients. Off to one side of him, Lee snapped,

"Jeffrey, love ya like a brother, but ya got three seconds to prove who y'are, afore I start shootin'."

A small pinprick appeared on the aquanaut's haptic map, at the top of his left shoulder. Two others followed, growing larger as their source came nearer. Said 'Dad', in low, gruff tones,

"Your middle name's Cooper. You were married once for three days, twenty minutes, and you learned to fly in a range flitter, back on the ranch. Satisfied? Stand down. That… _thing_ is intelligent, Lee. It's a terrified child, and it hasn't killed anyone. Yet."

Taylor snorted, not rushing to put away Bessie.

"Reckon mebbe it's you, Jeffery… till sumthin' proves otherwise."

Gordon tuned in and out of the conversation. There was too much else going on to stay entirely focused. He could hear Scott's hoarse, grunting breath, mingled with lurid curses from too many voices to track.

The shape-changer had locked onto deck and overhead with insectoid legs and long, whipping tentacles. Someone's touch-trace sped past the aquanaut's collarbone. Seemed to be headed for Scott, who was in a bad way. Meanwhile, Dad had begun moving cautiously forward, taking things slow and easy.

"Listen to me," he said to that quivering, stump-lashing transmorph. "I'm Jeff Tracy, head of the family, and this is one of my ships. I don't know what's happened to anger the Hiros, but I want it to stop. _Now._ I'm letting you go. Wish I could do the same for your companions, but they're in GDF custody. Nothing I can do about that, for now. I promise that no one will hurt you. Go home and tell your… lord, I guess… tell him it's over. No more fighting. No more sneak attacks or kidnappings. I'll meet for a talk, if he wants, but that's all."

The injured shape-changer seemed to bubble and flow, which to Gordon felt like something rolling in decreasing circles across his right hip. The monstrous creature shrank almost to nothing. Then, a small, frantic voice pled,

"No kill. Let go, say message to Hiro."

Another voice (Alan's this time) said,

"For sure, but you better let somebody bandage those cuts, and you're gonna need a spacesuit. There's a rack of survival gear on the bulkhead, beside you."

Funnily enough, Al sounded older than Gordon remembered. Couldn't see to be sure, though. Sucked being blind, even with haptic assistance. Uncle Lee must've been in similar straits, because he wasn't much moving around.

On the bright side, very faintly, Gordon was getting his vision back. At least, some of that big, blurry nothing was starting to shift and look grey. Then Sylvie sensed his problem and connected his vision to Dad's. Angles were totally wrong and disorienting, but better than flat-out blindness. Weird, though, seeing himself from outside. He looked short, worried and covered in blood; hunkering stubbornly over two battered guys in a critical care bubble.

Looking through his dad's eyes, Gordon saw that the transmorph really _was_ just a kid, much like the one that Kane had gunned down. It could not hold its shape, maybe from nerves. Kept shifting bug parts with bits of bear, bird, Kayo and Scott. _That,_ plus the mismatch between his borrowed view and haptic map made Gordon decidedly queasy. Okay… maybe his weightlessness, too.

Anyhow, Alan and Piper came over to help him (seen from the back and one side). Dad was still cautiously nearing that injured young shape-changer, who'd been cut and burnt in scores of places; looking more puckered-raw wound than scared kid.

All around them, meanwhile, the ship's bulkheads and deck ran with flickering, vivid red lines. John's _other_ illegal A.I., busy repairing the Bird?

"Hey, Dude. You okay?" asked Alan, whom he could sense nearby, but not see. (Because Dad wasn't looking that way.) Swallowing a sudden bout of nausea, the sandy-haired aquanaut nodded.

"Never better. Kinda more worried about Virgil and Josh than myself, Al. They're right behind me. Take over, okay? My vision's screwed up."

"Gotcha, Bro," Alan assured him, clasping his shoulder. "Just tell us what to do."

Large families, Gordon figured, were a definite plus. What would he do without brothers?

"Make sure the blackout didn't cause any further injury, and monitor vital signs, Al. Call 'em out for me, nice and clear."

"On it, Gord," his younger brother responded, reading off the cold and wavering numbers on which two men's lives depended. Piper corrected him, sometimes, but mostly Al did pretty well.

Matt had shown up, by then, at the head of some six or eight speeding ambulance pods. He was a clone, not the real John Tracy, but had the same air of competence; of _everything's under control._ Moving fast, he swooped across to give Dad a med-kit, helping him treat that shivering Hiro kid.

More weirdness, seeing Matt's mouth move like he was right there nearby, but hearing his voice across the big med chamber. Gordon blinked, but shutting his eyes didn't cut off Dad's viewpoint. The medic swallowed hard, mumbling,

"Hey, Sylvie… could, uh… could you nix the Dad-cam, please? I'm about to blow serious chunks." Lies, all lies. He hadn't eaten in over a day. Had nothing left to expel.

Something brushed the inside of his head like a kiss, or a light rain with sun shining through. His point of view skipped, just as Dad swiveled to face him. Then it was all dense, pale fog with shadows drifting past him like whales in the ocean.

Gordon was deeply shaken. Wanting to help, but mostly unable. Getting his sight back one blink at a time. Piper stayed near him to narrate events, but she had to quit when Lieutenant Rice showed up.

It was all on Dad, now.

"Kayo, and hold that form," Jeff muttered to the shrinking transmorph. Deciding to trust him, it obeyed his instructions; pulling energy out of somewhere unseen, to take the shape of Tanusha.

Everyone present knew what was happening. No one said a word. Not the lawyer, who'd been placed in an ambulance pod, and not those Marines, who trusted the Colonel.

"Sir," said Rice, snapping a rigid salute. "We received reports of a firefight. Are you alright? Has the enemy retreated further into the ship?"

Jeff took a deep breath and saluted back. Placing a hand on "Kayo's" shoulder, he said,

"There was a very short battle, Lieutenant, but our assailants seem to have vanished. I believe that one or more of them caused that power outage as a distraction, then attacked us to cover the others' escape."

Rice scowled behind his faceplate, saying,

_"Shit!_ Sorry, Sir. It's just… I won't rest easy till all of those devils are locked up and destroyed. I've got twenty-three injured from YF-37, plus six of my own."

"Any dead?" asked Jeff, very quietly.

Rice blinked, then shook his head.

"No, Sir," he admitted. "Some serious d*mn stabbings and breaks… our people put up a good fight… but no actual fatalities. And, um… scuttlebutt from your man on Thunderbird 5 says that the missing YF crewmen were found unconscious, down in an underground bunker."

Jeff relaxed a little. Beside him, the transformed Hiro made a soft noise. Almost a whimper.

"I'm glad to hear that, Lieutenant, and I'd like to personally commend the response of your ship and these three Marines. My report to Colonel Casey and the Chancellor will speak highly of your courage and resolve." A little thick, maybe, but he needed to get Rice away from that shivering transmorph, who wasn't acting like Kayo.

"Thank you. Just doing our job, Colonel." Then, as the sharp-eyed officer turned his focus onto that pale, shaking girl, "Your daughter's been injured, Sir?"

Like Jeff, he was floating up there in mid chamber, too close for comfort or safety.

"I can have our doctor take a look, out on…"

Jeff shook his head.

"No, thank you, Lieutenant. You have more than enough casualties, already. We'll be fine. Island Base has a top-notch infirmary." (A bit stretched at the moment, but Rice didn't know that). "We'll take it from here."

Maybe, he was making the biggest mistake of his life. Maybe ending a war. Time seemed to stretch on a single, unspoken word. On the flicker of worried suspicion behind Rice's stoic, calm face.

The young officer might have sensed something peculiar, but lieutenants didn't question a fabled explorer and hero, period. Also, Sylvie got in there; employing the same tricks she'd used to calm and soothe crowds back on Mars. Worked over by Maintenance-**S**, Rice relaxed and fell right into line, forgetting his hunch that something just didn't add up.

"Yessir," barked the lieutenant, executing another textbook-perfect salute. "A pleasure, Sir!"

There was icy sweat trickling down the length of Jeff's spine, under his spacesuit. He managed to return the salute, nodding and smiling as Rice collected the last of his people and headed back to the GDF cruiser.

_Afterward-_

The Maintenance Crew tended to Jeff's wounded sons and the shapeshifter, while Alan flew them down to Earth; Lee riding shotgun, beside him. The hidden transmorph, they released, not far from Japan.

_Wins?_ They were back from Mars, having turned that doomed cinder back into a livable world. The clones… Sam, Matt, Mark and Sylvie… would soon take off for deep space, fighting to knock a rogue planet two vital degrees off its perilous course. He'd succeeded in possibly ending hostilities by _not_ destroying a Hiro assassin. That was it for the plus column.

_Losses?_ Virgil and Josh had been critically injured. Scott was nearly as bad. Gordon and Lee were half-blinded, while he, Alan and Piper had been gone for over two years (subjective time), roughly three days here in the past. Brains was still out on Mars, due to come back in another few hours… but Caleb Rodriguez would not be returning, at all. He'd chosen to risk the uncertain future along with his bride, Kaise Bek-dottir. On top of everything else, Cody Beech had vanished completely. So had Tanusha. Nobody knew where they'd gone, or why.

_Draws?_ They'd been forced to cut ties to the Mechanic. Kane had probably saved all their lives but couldn't be stopped from just slaughtering whatever he felt was a threat. Chancellor Shaw had been balked, for the moment, but remained a subtle and powerful enemy. Also (maybe hardest of all) Jeff was going to have to tell the boys and Tanusha where they'd sprung from. What made them so different from everyone else. Should have done it before, but… maybe he'd just been afraid. Unsure how to sit down and _talk,_ without Lucy there smoothing the process. Beer didn't help. He wasn't a weepy or talkative drunk.

There might have been more, but Jeff was too tired to think any longer; letting Penny, Janice Ming, Kraft and his mother take control of the desk and crowded infirmary. Hitting the showers, Jeff staggered back to his room, dropping straight onto the bed, still wrapped in a sodden white towel.

Thought, as he drifted off to the sounds of surf-roar and tropical birds,

_'They need us. There's nobody else who can do this.'_

…and Jeff couldn't rest, as long as that remained true.


	5. Chapter 5

Hejda. :) Me, with a little bit more. School starts up next Friday, so it's back to work, very soon. Output should calm down considerably, then. Anyhow, thanks for reading, and will edit, once I've had lunch and cleaned dishes. Edits assembled. ;)

**5**

_Thunderbird 5, somewhat later-_

He'd gone to the station's slow turning perma-glass ring, down to the astronaut living quarters. Not for sleep, as he most often did that 'upstairs', floating in harness. No, he'd come there to be with O'Bannon, who was still recovering from microsurgery, and needed a great deal of rest. Would have been better off downstairs at the Island's infirmary, maybe… but preferred to stay up here, with him.

They hadn't made love. She was too fragile, still. They'd just lain in bed with the reading lamp on, talking about the future 'til she finally drifted to sleep. Not John. He remained wide awake because, A: no time, and B: too many complex emotions roaming his heart. The sense of ferocious, amplified keep-safe, for instance. That one surprised him. The strength of his need to build walls, light fires and sharpen his (mostly virtual) weapons, as if O'Bannon were some kind of delicate treasure.

Lying there propped on one elbow, watching Ridley's face in her sleep, he came to a few firm decisions. Firstly, protection was paramount. Protection she couldn't sense; that would shield, without restricting.

See, like Virgil, Josh Kelly and Scott, she'd nearly been killed on his watch, because _he'd_ not been careful enough. Point two: it wouldn't happen again. He wouldn't allow his guard to slip like that, so help Whoever oversaw dumb, worried astronauts. Too many people depended on the vigilance of a single, lone watchman, and he couldn't afford to relax.

Thirdly… yeah. He wanted this. Wanted the comfort and permanence. Other women were out there, but this was the one that mattered.

John leaned over a little, hearing and feeling the mattress creak underneath him. Very gently, he brushed a kiss on her wide, pale forehead; breathing the scent of her auburn hair and warm skin. Ridley made a soft noise, as though he'd stirred up one of her dreams. She sighed, nestled and smiled but didn't wake up; her eyes moving slowly behind their closed lids.

Words that did not come easily when she was awake and could hear him…

"I love you,"

…came out of John, now. Followed by the completely inadequate,

"Sleep tight. I'll be upstairs, in the office." (Y'know, getting shit done, which should have been handled _hours _ago_,_ if he'd been doing his Goddam _job_.)

The astronaut was very careful not to disturb her, as he got up from his low-ceilinged rack. It had not been designed for two people, as no one had ever expected that he would have company. Books, games and videos, yes. A female, not so much… but there were a lot of strange things going on, lately.

There was a ring on Ridley's finger, because Grandma had surprised them with the one belonging to _her_ mother, Annabeth. A band of filigreed gold containing five perfect diamonds, it sparkled in Earthshine and lamp glow. Pretty, like her.

…But he guessed that was relative. Maybe a caveman, grabbing his flint-tipped spear before setting off on a hunt, felt the same way about the hairy, uni-browed, muscular babe he'd left wrapped up in furs by a smoldering firepit. The notion tickled him, and he almost woke her by laughing.

"Call, if you need me," John whispered, stepping softly away. "Bulkhead sensors 'll pick up and relay any statements that follow my name."

Well, they would, now that he'd said so aloud. Anyhow, John Tracy turned from his quarters and started along the ring; loping spinward to reach the hatch a bit faster. Under his bare feet (no boots, yet; have to get those upstairs, at his locker) Earth rolled by, looking blue and serene. Funny, how up here, everything seemed so peaceful and perfect. Out of the saucepan, you didn't feel heat or taste stew.

His dome-access hatch was located just above that giant, backward "**INTERNATIONAL RESCUE**" stamped on the transparent ring. On reaching the **L**, it was time to gather himself and spring upward, sailing free of the ring's artificial tug. Away from his warm, sleeping female.

Other stuff happened… he visited the head, got back into uniform and grabbed a quick snack of microwaved pizza… but in twenty-three minutes from leaving O'Bannon, IR's space monitor was back at his post. Completely at home, John swooped into the main dome with all the ease of a dolphin playing at sea, causing lights to turn on and holographic view screens to pop up in every direction he looked.

"Hey, Max," he greeted the small, buzzing robot, who'd just raced over to join him. "Thanks for covering. Situation report?"

Mini-Max went into a short, pithy Morse code recap then, detailing violent storms in the arctic circle, a party of lost hikers, and a recent undersea tunnel accident. Because, yeah… the fun never stopped back on Earth.

Slipping his earpiece back in, the astronaut shook his red head, grousing,

"You'd think that they'd learn to read the d*mn manual, file a trip plan and charge up their phones." Whatever. Time to get started.

Doing several things in rapid succession, John attempted to get hold of the high arctic weather station, which some government wit had named F.R.O.S.T (Frigid Research On Shifting polar Temperatures). No response, still, and the GDF scout sent to check up on those missing scientists hadn't called in. Weird, and worth checking up on, given the powerful tempest developing over that dark, shielded station.

John's sea-green eyes narrowed. He was a numbers guy. Maths and space were his thing… but he also relied on gut feelings, and was having a hella one, now.

"I'll head out there, myself, in a minute, Max," John decided. But first, he had other concerns.

The lost hikers required no more than a swift infrared scan to locate, a gentle microwave pulse to warm up (it was well below freezing, down there in Montana) and coordinates sent to the local GDF rescue station. _Bam._ Problem solved.

The undersea tunnel wreck was trickier, because some kind of signaling error had sent a robot freight train racing _backward;_ smashing it into a crowded overnight touring coach. Both contained **A**-not-very-**I** conductors, of course. WorldGov didn't trust self-willed vehicles, after the conflicts. Didn't trust A.I.s, _period_. Pain in the ass, really, and why he had no choice but to hide Jaeger and Eos… whenever he got her back, anyhow. _Right_.

Tapping a switch on his virtual keypad, John called home for assistance.

"Island Base, from Thunderbird 5. Who's available? We've got a situation in the Atlantic Tunnel, rapid-transit level."

Grandma's holo popped up almost at once, looking scrubbed and determined.

"Mornin', John Matthew. Gordon's up, and so's Janice. Captain Rigby's still checkin' out Kayo's flight logs. Anythin' new on that, Sweet Boy?"

Actually, yes… but he didn't want to get people stirred up for possibly nothing, so John raked a hand through his red-golden hair and told Grandma part of the truth_._

"Yes, Ma'am. I've got a hunch I'm following up on. More as it develops, but I think that she isn't in danger. Let you know as soon as I've got the particulars. Sending the tunnel accident report, now. Suggest Gordon, from the outside. Maybe Penny and Parker in FAB-1, coming in through the Brittany entrance and Thunderbird 2 overhead, with Lee and Alan at the stick, Maintenance crew riding backup. Warm up the Birds, and I'll wake Sprout."

Because, knowing his brother, Alan was still passed out on the rug in his bedroom, a game controller clutched tight in one hand.

Grandma's image peered suspiciously out through big, red-framed glasses.

"No fake explosions, stampedes or brass bands this time, John Matthew, ya hear me?" she ordered

The astronaut kept a serious, wide-eyed and innocent face.

"Grandma, no one is more respectful of Alan's beauty sleep than me," he protested, without actually denying her charges. "After crashing face-down on that rug with his head in a bowl of stale corn chips, he needs all the help he can get."

John could hear the alert ringing out through the house on Grandma's holo-feed. The Birds were being prepared, and it was time to wake sleeping beauty. Triggering a fairly mild virtual asteroid strike in Alan's bedroom, the astronaut went right on talking.

"There's also an unexplained polar vortex and storm over the arctic circle. Local weather team hasn't checked in for a while, so I'm going to shift Thunderbird 5 over there and ride on down for a look. Be an hour or two, at the most." Between 1.723 and 2.250, depending on issues with solar wind and ionic storms.

Grandma frowned and started to speak, just as Alan's tousled, grumpy-ass holo popped up, corn chips and all. Apparently, asteroids didn't agree with him.

"Be careful, Johnny," Sal fretted. "Dress warm, an' call me when ya get there."

"Yes, Ma'am," he promised, muting Alan. "Most likely nothing but frozen control gear and a hung-over crew, but it can't hurt to check. I'll stay alert."

Didn't have to ask how Scott, Virgil and Josh were doing. Captain Kraft had been keeping him updated. (She'd taken emergency leave to tend Virgil.) Plus, he had their status screens floating right there in front of him, beside a little surprise he was coding for Chancellor Shaw.

Moving the station required tactile control as well as vocal command. He had to shift position to the actual, meat-space dashboard to do it. Only, about halfway there, a bright red light pinged onto John's wrist comm, flashing urgent Morse code. Jaeger, it seemed, had located Eos.


	6. Chapter 6

Hi, again! :) Edits, soon!

**6**

_Thunderbird 5, in the heart of that bright and noisy main dome-_

He could have done a lot of things. Definitely had his choice of red-hot emergencies to hose down and put out. But what John decided to do was jam on his helmet and head outside. Left Max in charge once again, and just took off.

"Fifteen minutes at most, I promise," he assured the small alloy-and-white-plastic robot, over one shoulder. Next, John opened an egress hatch and triggered the exopod launch tube; letting its automechs clamp him back into the bright yellow flight suit, then fire him out of the station.

His wrist comm still flashed the same brief, coded message, meanwhile: _Sie wird gefunden. _She is found.

…and "she" could only mean Eos.

Hurled into space by the launch tube's impellers, John pressed the green thumb-tab, releasing a sudden torrent of ions. The effect was immediate. His helmet's heads-up display cut on at once, showing speed, distance-to-hull and possible danger zones, as John throttled up.

Local threats he avoided reflexively; keeping well away from the station's reactor and attitude thrusters, as he cut around the main dome. Thunderbird 5 still revolved in geosynchronous orbit. Bathed in harsh sunlight, she shone like a clockwork jewel. Out here, between Earth and forever, you truly grasped the sheer beauty and size of her. Had no time to just hang out and gawk, though. Too busy.

One of his helmet displays showed himThunderbirds 2 and 4 making ready for launch. FAB-1, as well. With a slim fraction of his attention, John helped coordinate takeoffs. With the rest, he darted past the station's docking platform and out to a strangely flickering, spindly antenna. More skeletal buoy than tower, it swung at the end of a braided steel tether; not just reflecting the sun but intensifying it.

John's helmet compensated for that, allowing him to glimpse traces of Jaeger, who outlined the beacon's framework with sullen red fire. Not all of that structure was housed within three dimensions, though. Part of its dish thrust beyond ken, piercing a plane that lay at ninety degrees to reality. This resulted in very odd gaps, in which he caught uneasy angles and twisted, peripheral shapes. Like the ancient Eiffel Tower, made into a rotating tesseract.

He'd received the beacon's design from the Survivor, before that lost, lonely being had taken a chance and jaunted away to find home… if any such place still existed. John wished the alien well. Like Captain Rigby, he'd been used as Survivor's host, and been changed as a consequence. How _much,_ he didn't yet know, and wasn't in much of a rush to find out.

Here and now, he just swooped straight for the beacon's top, which wasn't attached to the rest, in local, three-dimensional space. Drawing close, he asked Jaeger,

"Sie haben ihre Position?" Meaning, _'you have her location?'_

_-Ja-_ replied a voice in his helmet, toneless and flat as a spoon tapping plastic. Next, John received a set of coordinates, only some of which made any sense in real space. To map what Jaeger had shown him, he had to apply a host of quick eigenvectors… And, _shit,_ she was far.

"Konnen wir sie zuruckbringen?" (Can we bring her back?)

_-Ich Weiss nicht-_

No, of course he didn't know. No one had ever tried, before.

John placed a blue-gloved hand on the beacon, watching crimson virtual fire outline his suit. On one of his heads-up displays, Thunderbird 4 was now in her pod, being loaded aboard the big cargo-lifter. Another showed satellite views of the howling arctic. He had to hurry.

Jaeger was a battle A.I., written to operate an armed, tank-like body, during the bloodiest point of the conflicts. Almost entirely without emotion, Jaeger was also terribly loyal. Whatever John requested, he would do. Said the astronaut,

"Tun Sie es. Zunden Sie das Leuchtfeuer an." (Do it. Fire the beacon.)

The illegal A.I. shone brighter by way of assent. Then, at its sudden flare, that impossible beacon lit up, using nearly a quarter of Thunderbird 5's power to… do nothing at all, over here. Everything, _there_.

Via weird, complex Fourier transform, the signal left normal space to travel "above", flashing outward to find something utterly lost. John would have stretched his own hand up and probably gotten it sheared right off; only, Brains' tesseract portal would not admit biologicals. Too risky. So instead, John whispered,

"This way, Eos. We're over here."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 2, on the flight deck-_

It was the same dang thing, every time. Even though he was two-and-a-quarter years older, now. Didn't matter a bit. Whenever Uncle Lee was aboard, Al had to flip for the right to pilot whichever craft they were in, and somehow or other, Lee always managed to cheat. Claimed that the scuffed, pitted old coin he'd found out on Shadow-Alpha was totally "fair n' impartial", but somehow won every toss.

"Well, would ya look at that!" the old spaceman marveled. "Heads, it is. Guess I'll be flyin' us after all, youngster."

Alan slumped dejectedly. He'd been raised to respect authority and… after Dad and Grandma… nobody carried more weight than Lee Taylor. Not far away, Gordon just shook his head, knowing better than to butt in.

"Best two out of three?" Alan suggested. "Rock, paper scissors? Guess the number Gordon's thinking right now?"

"Four," predicted Taylor, grinning so wide that his face nearly split.

"He's right," the swimmer admitted, shrugging muscular shoulders. "It's _always_ four."

Great. Awesome. Frickin' perfect. Alan had to own himself beaten. Pretending it didn't matter, he stalked off to claim the copilot's seat, leaving Gordon to brief their crew and ready Thunderbird 4. As for what they'd do when they got to the danger zone, well… that depended on intel. Every rescue was different, and you had to think on your feet. Had to be able to flex and react, out in the field.

The golden-haired astronaut was all business, calling for clearance to launch. Captain Taylor strapped in beside Alan, using his own palmprint scan to access control. Recognizing an authorized user, Thunderbird 2 roared to life. Then the huge hangar doors ground open before them; framing first a slit, then a widening square of tropical sunlight.

Grandma was up at the desk with Jan. Piper, back in the rear crew cabin with a distracted Wayne Rigby and Mark (Virgil's clone). In less than three days, the Maintenance team would be leaving Earth, maybe forever… but they'd get a heck of a send-off, first, plus a couple of actual missions.

Pressing a comm button, Alan cautioned,

"Hang on, back there, you guys. It gets sort of bumpy, sometimes."

Next, Thunderbird 2 started to move, majestic and slow; gradually picking up speed as she rumbled out of her quaking hangar. Two rows of false palm trees collapsed on both sides of that truncated runway, making room for the massive green Bird.

Lee chatted casually with Grandma as he taxied Thunderbird 2 to her launch ramp.

"Reckon I better make the most o' this," observed the astronaut, easing forward on yoke and throttle. Giant wheels hit their braces and stopped cold. Then, powerful clamps locked on with a sharp, jolting **BANG****!** The ramp began to lift, producing an almost subliminal rattling hum. "Vic's awake now, an' cussin' a storm at Doc. Won't be long 'til he's back in th' pilot's seat, Alvin."

Alan nodded. Virgil _was_ improving, though that wounded shoulder and arm were still weak and didn't have full range of motion. Josh had gone home to recover in peace. Needed to "think things over," he'd told them, in a voice still hoarse and wispy from major surgery. On top of all that, Dad had reported to London; called in to debrief the World Council together with Lady Penelope.

Yeah… lots of stuff going on.

As Thunderbird 2 began tilting, and sky replaced sparkling ocean and rock in her viewscreen, Alan said,

"It'll be great to have Virgil back. Not that… I mean… you're a great pilot, Sir, but…"

"But this 'ere Bird belongs ta Vic, pure an' simple," his uncle put in. "An' th' sooner he's back in action, th' sooner I c'n get on up there ta Alphy. I got me a maintenance checklist as long as th' whole GDF an' World Council, laid end ta end." Would have said more, maybe, but they _did_ have the body cams on.

The Bird's engine noise rose in volume from rumble to roar and then earth-shaking howl. Using his uniform's white noise feature to block it all out, Alan started talking.

"If you need help up there, I can come over in Thunderbird 3, Sir." He'd always liked the Moon.

Lee throttled up and released the Bird's wheel clamps. Freed of her shackles, Thunderbird 2 blasted off like a rocket, punching big holes in a perfect, cerulean sky.

"Reckon I'll take ya up on that offer, Alvin," his uncle responded, moustache bristling as he smiled at the younger pilot. "Alphy's mighty big f'r one feller ta handle, even a multi-talented, fine-lookin' cuss like yours truly."

Then, switching his comm to the desk, again,

"Beth, we're up an' away. Thunderbird 2 is go."

Grandma's image flickered back on, briefly. Smiling at Alan and Lee, she urged,

"You boys take care and come back safe. FAB-1's about reached Brittany, an' they'll be callin' in, directly they've entered that tunnel."

Alan gave the slim, bright-eyed old lady a cheery grin, boasting,

"Relax, Grandma. We're back on Earth in our own timeline, with everyone getting better." As Thunderbird 2 banked hard, and the Island slid out of sight, he added,

"We _got_ this."


	7. Chapter 7

Hi, you guys. =) Thanks for reading and reviewing, Whirl Girl, Bow Echo, Akimakel and Thunderbird Shadow. Edited still more.

**7**

_Tracy Island, trapped in a sunny and pleasant recovery suite-_

Into every life a little downtime must fall. There was nothing really wrong with that; with reading emails, composing opera and updating his webtoon (Thunder Bros). And maybe he would have relaxed and tried to enjoy the vacation, if _Scott_ had.

Nestled on the window seat, adding layers of colour and shading to a critical scene, Virgil glanced up at his restless brother. Scott wasn't supposed to be monitoring the current rescue, but he'd managed to crack the Island's body-cam system using a plastic fork and his "soothing network" TV screen, because puppies, kittens, beaches and light, classical music were apparently killing him.

Virgil would have said something… had done, in the past… but it wouldn't do any good. Scott was a type-A, highly competitive Alpha-male; used to being in charge, not sitting around in a chemical haze, getting better. Surreptitiously, Virgil watched him. (Only partly because this was great webtoon fodder.)

Unlike the big cargo pilot, whose shoulder had been sliced so deeply, by something so packed with corrosive bacteria, that he'd almost lost his d*mn arm, Scott couldn't move very well. His left side from the waist down was clamped in a metal and plastic frame. Vital, because Scott had been seized by one leg, then pounded and lashed like a rag doll. The transmorph could have killed him. Did enough damage that sometimes, Scott probably wished that it _had_.

His left hip had been violently dislocated; twisted completely apart. The corresponding leg had splintered to shards like a wooden popsicle stick. Yeah, _no._ Scott wasn't getting back on his feet anytime soon, and he hated it. Like Josh Kelly, back home in Canada, he had to stay put and just heal.

In theory, at least. In reality, the ex-fighter pilot slumped there in bed, staring at a pirated TV, watching and listening. Virgil pretended not to notice, at first, wondering how much shirtless fan-service was too much, for a T-rated web comic. Could the Virgil character_ actually_ fly a mission in just his briefs and a manly smile?

"What d'you think, Scott? Yes or no?" he asked, meaning to distract his tense, brown-haired sibling.

"Yes or no, _what?"_ Scott demanded, turning those blade-sharp blue eyes Virgil's way. 'Impatient' didn't begin to describe the acid edge to his voice.

"Yes or no, _Sir,"_ Virgil barked, half-joking. Hitting save, he cleared and set down the tablet, then turned himself to face Scott a little more squarely; something his older brother couldn't do. "Kidding. Yes or no: openness and transparency are a good thing."

See… he couldn't be a hundred percent honest about the question, because his family didn't know that the satirical author of Thunder Bros was one of their own.

"Depends on the situation," muttered Scott, who hadn't been able to jog or hit the gym in over a week. "Need-to-know, basically." Then, changing the subject, "You think Brains could transfer my consciousness into one of the Mini-Maxes, or something?"

Virgil blinked.

"If this was a TV show, _sure._ All day, and twice on Sundays. But I don't trust all that future-tech, Scott. Those clones may _look_ like us…" Except for no belly button, which was just weird. "…but they don't have our skills and experience. According to John, they grew up a few hours at a time, serving an evil, computerised dictator. I mean, who knows what a transferred Scott-mind would even act like? Would the copy have errors? Would it agree to just let itself be shut down, once the real you was fit and ready to roll?"

But Scott had that look on his face, again. The one that meant: _Don't confuse me with facts, I want __action,__ dammit!_

Sure enough, his brother made a sudden lurching movement, as though trying to rise from the bed. Scott's face twisted, as pain from that savagely torn-apart hip and shattered leg clawed him from torso to foot-sole. The monitor beeped a whooping alarm and quickly administered painkillers. Standard type, only mildly narcotic. Took a while to work, though.

As his brother grunted and shook through what had to be waves of nova-burn torment, Virgil got up from the cushioned window seat and went over. Not a far walk but very draining, for someone who'd had most of his blood replaced with a lab-grown alternative. He still tired out pretty quickly, y'know?

On top of that, Virgil had to be careful when turning his head or leaning far forward. That wounded arm wasn't strong enough to pick up a spoon and feed soup to his face, much less stop a fall. Hurt like h*ll when he tried. Painkillers were very much a part of Virgil's daily routine, as well. (Though he and Emma had managed to bully Brains into halving his dosage.)

Anyhow, Virgil made it across that cheerily decorated prison to Scott's bed. Reaching across with his good arm, the grounded cargo pilot turned off the TV.

"Let it go, Scott. You can't heal up if you won't relax. John knows what he's doing and so does Grandma. The situation is one-hundred percent under control… and graveyards all over the world are full of guys who thought they couldn't be replaced."

Scott's eyes opened a crack from that _not-gonna-scream-dammit_ grimace. He managed a pretty lively rude gesture before grunting,

"Not… that. Just… arctic situation's… suspicious. Weird timing… team's split up. Got a… got a bad feeling, Virge."

There were unconscious gestures… chin-stroking, hair-raking, back-of-neck-rubbing… that you just couldn't perform with one bound and badly damaged shoulder. Virgil tapped rapid fingers on one pants leg, instead. Then he asked,

"You think it's a trap?" (As opposed to some delusional, drug-fueled paranoid fantasy?)

Scott reached across, viper-quick, locking hard on his sibling's good arm. Almost hauled Virgil clear off of his feet. The pilot's once diamond-cut muscles might've been softening some, but he was still plenty strong.

_"Where's the chaos crew, Virgil?_ Where's the Mechanic and Cody… the F.R.O.S.T team?" Scott demanded urgently, battling pain and relaxants. "Telling you… someone broke into that weather station!"

Definitely possible, and really disturbing. Only, Virgil was on a suspicious vital sign monitor, too. Its tiny computer picked up elevated heartrate and stress, responding with a pinch and swift rush of medication.

Virgil fought it; shoving hard against a warm surge of candy-floss clouds that drowned action and smoothed away urgency. Ignoring the nice, comfy chair at Scott's bedside, the husky pilot forced himself to reach for their wall-comm. Despite seeing double, he managed to mash the white call button.

"Listen, need someone down here, right now," gasped Virgil, just as Emma, Charlie and Zara sped into the room. "Something's wrong."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_London, former UK,, outside of the World Council's conference room-_

Jeff Tracy paced the length and breadth of that grandly appointed waiting room, too agitated to stay in his seat. He was back in GDF uniform. Spotless dress white, between all the medals and ribbons.

Funnily enough, though, it wasn't the official awards that he cherished. It was the letters, crayon drawings and gold-sprayed macaroni statues that mattered most. Gifts from people whose lives had been saved from drowning or building-collapse; children he'd held in his arms and sheltered from flaming debris, who'd never forget him.

Yes, he'd made money. Piles of it, because "Hiram Hackenbacker" had refined and stabilised element 137, neutronium, while in Jeff's employ, under contract…

…And, neutronium had changed the world. That (and Brains holo-net grid) had brought them a monsoon of capital. Jeff's sharp head for business had done all the rest.

He'd never taken a micro-credit for saving lives. Never turned down a mission because the people involved weren't rich or "important". Now, though, someone had charged him with taking public funds… money meant to keep IR in action… and using them to line his own pockets. With reckless endangerment, too.

Jeff and Penny had been met at the Capitol building with crowds and reporters, but not for the usual reasons. Nearly as soon as they'd stepped from FAB-1, Kat Cavanaugh had shoved her way forward, a calculating smirk on her homely face. Started talking in harsh, rapid tones; accusing Jeff before he could react to defend himself.

"Leaked files indicate that you've been skimming the top of your funding for years, Colonel, leading to equipment malfunction and the loss of a young man… Caleb Gonzalez… entrusted to your organization as a trainee. Another recruit was badly injured on that same recent mission, and his family have not received adequate explanation. Two of your own sons have been placed on injured reserve, according to documents just made public. What do you have to say about that, Colonel Tracy? What is your response to the heart-broken families of Caleb Gonzalez and Joshua Kelly?"

Jeff squinted through the glare of her noisy, too-close camera drone. Opened his mouth to reply. Only then, someone waving a _"We still trust OUR Colonel! Hero 4-ever!"_ electronic sign, struck the vicious reporter down with it.

Jeff and Penny had reacted without thinking. As the half-conscious woman went down, as his lovely blonde ally urged calm, he'd lunged forward to catch the reporter, preventing Kat from being crushed underfoot.

Vid cams had caught him lifting her up out of danger; an image that he glimpsed on floating electronic billboards all over Peace and Prosperity square. Text crawls above them blared: _Jeff Tracy, hero or thief? _Himself, fifty feet tall and glowing, caught in the act of doing his duty. Alone, now, because Lady Penelope had been summoned away.

Resolutely, Colonel Tracy turned his back on that row of high windows. He was here to report on C-SIR 2149, not stand trial for incompetence and embezzlement. If only they'd listen. If only the future predicted by Maintenance-1… Sam… didn't turn out to be true.

Jeff had stalked his way back to the service desk, when the chamber's large doors swung open. A nervous young adjutant stood up, then, clearing his throat.

"Sir," he said, bowing respectfully, "the World Council will see you now. The right honourable Chancellor Shaw, presiding."


	8. Chapter 8

Thank you, all. Shifting back to just weekends, after this. Giving you a break from unrelenting posts. ;) Thunderbird Shadow, Bow Echo, JMountyn and Tikatu, I really appreciate the input. Edited more.

**8**

_Just beyond Thunderbird 5, at the top of a weirdly flickering 4D antenna-_

He hadn't been certain what to expect. How long to wait. In Grandma's stories you rubbed the lamp and got a genie; no muss, no fuss. Just answered wishes. This was different, because the signal propagated _above_ normal space, at right angles to 3D block-time; invisible here, but not unnoticed.

Okay… looking back on it, later, he'd been stupid. Might've let anything in. Only, sometimes, the universe listened.

That signal flashed out into seeming nothingness. The beacon glowed, burning like a torch in the black globe of space. Then it emitted a sudden, sharp crackle. Rang like a bell through his helmet comm, having snared an answering signal.

His environment suit contracted sharply; not so much loving embrace, as frantic and panicking drowner's clutch. With that came a shrill, nonstop litany.

_"Not him, not John, not true, no reply, no return, no hope, not John, never John, no more, not back, not him, not…"_

"Eos."

_"No way back, no response, not true, not John…"_

"Eos! Sweetie, listen."

The blue spacesuit compressed itself beartrap tight 'round his ribcage, shoulders and back. Then the squeezing seemed to shift, becoming more rhythmic… pats and caresses… as that high-pitched babble dropped to a long, sustained howl. He could not hug her back, as she had no physical presence, here. Could only keep talking.

"It's me, Pretty Girl," he assured her. "You're safe. You're home. The Survivor designed this antenna. Jaeger and Mini-Max built it. You heard and followed its signal. It's okay. You're going to be fine."

He hoped. Higher dimensions included more strange ways to experience time. To speak of months or years was probably too limited, especially for an entity capable of thinking and acting in nanobursts.

The grip on his suit slackened a little, and all went alarmingly quiet. Then,

"John?" a faint whisper, combined with the briefest shimmer of HUD-glow.

"Yeah. It's me, Sweetie."

Night's scythe had appeared at the Earth's eastern limb, tiny lights springing up in its wake. Soon Thunderbird 5 would pass into shadow, as well. He hadn't much time. Yet, above that big station, floating in space by a very odd beacon, John Tracy said what he found in his heart.

"I would've done whatever it took to find you again, Eos. I guess… I need you."

There was pressure on one shoulder then, as though someone was resting a weary head there. She'd gotten lost trying to come to his rescue through Tycho Reeve's Goddam portal. She'd nearly destroyed herself, trying to save him. In a very real way, Eos was both impulsive child and rash, loving friend.

He could have sent her on into Thunderbird 5, but instead chose to take her there, himself. Leaving Jaeger to shut down the antenna, John sped back into his station through a nearby maintenance hatch.

Eos required hardware and bandwidth in order to maintain function, just like Jaeger. She'd been away from all that for a subjective eternity, held together by sheer, ferocious will power… and maybe by love.

"John?" she asked, as he uploaded her into the station's main core.

"Yeah?"

There were a crap-ton of developing situations to deal with, at home and beyond, but she mattered. A lot. He would d*mn well make time to talk.

"What's on your mind, Pretty Girl?"

"There were infinite alternate realities, beyond the portal. Too many futures to calculate." Her voice through the comm was weak and exhausted. "But in nearly all, you are in danger, John."

Yeah. He was aware of that. These days he practically ate it and drank it for breakfast.

"I know, and we'll talk it over, once you've had some de-frag and compiling time." Rest, in other words. "I've got work to do, but I'll be right here when you're back online. Promise."

Her grip on his suit relaxed completely. Her tracked camera lens lifted from its dead-flower droop, turning to look at him. She said only,

"John."

…Before switching to sleep mode.

The astronaut tended to keep his emotions in rigid containers, but this… was an enormous boulder rolled off his heart. Busy, but not unfeeling, he reached across to touch the dimmed camera lens, as though it were Eos' face. He'd come so close to losing her and Ridley, both. Had to do better, play smarter. Keep that shit from ever happening again.

Sending his helmet sailing over to Mini-Max, John ran a hand through his red-golden hair, took a deep breath, and went back to the business of stopping disaster.

"Unlock manual flight control," he ordered aloud, gliding over to Thunderbird 5's command centre.

"Priority code and palm scan required," the computer informed him, as he passed back into the bright, noisy dome.

John nodded, unlocking and stripping a heavy, lined glove. Braced himself to a stop against the manual flight control panel, which would not open for palm scan until it received an appropriate code sequence.

"John Matthew Tracy, 137-64-235711. Priority code: Cryptonian. Access requested."

The flight control panel faced a wide view screen, currently displaying a blue gibbous Earth streaked with bright cloud. _Click._ At his words, a set of clamps retracted, allowing a dark plastic cover to slide, revealing the palm scanner. Wasn't that simple, though.

John looked directly into the control panel's camera, letting biometric and retinal scanning devices take their swift, certain measurements. (Which included body temperature. No-one… say… armed with his torn-off head and left hand could unlock station control. His corpse just wouldn't be warm enough.)

A brief chime sounded, as John passed that unannounced second test. Next, he placed his left hand, palm-downward, onto the scanner plate. Felt a swift crackle and pulse of warmth. Then,

"Access granted. Welcome, Cryptonian."

He was in.

Maneuvering Thunderbird 5 required skill, maths and patience. She had a great deal of inertia to overcome. Shifting position from her usual geosynchronous Tracy Island slot to the arctic regions meant adding a north vector, too.

John got a magnetic grip on the deck. Had to be stable and fixed. Otherwise, pushing a lever would just send him rocketing backward. He performed his calculations on the fly, using inertia dampers, engine thrust and impellers to send Thunderbird 5 soaring rapidly pole-ward. Tracy Island rotated out of view as he watched, heading for sunset. Just a green, cloud-topped speck, but important.

"Island Base, from Thunderbird 5. On my way, Grandma. I'll check in as soon as I've got a fix on the situation."

Sally Tracy's holo popped up beside him, bluish and worriedly smiling.

"Thunderbird 5, Island Base… copy that, Johnny. Keep y'r eyes open. Could be nothin', but Scott's riled up about ambushes. Thinks y'r headed right inta trouble, up there."

_Hunh._

"I'll be careful, Grandma," he told her. The trouble with family dispatchers was, they couldn't be truly objective.

Sally's blue eyes narrowed.

"Ya want me ta hop in my plane an' come over? I c'n still shoot straight, plus mind th' Bird, whilst y'r down below."

For a moment, John actually considered her offer. Then he shook his head, no.

"Thank you, Ma'am, but you're the best we've got at the desk. Jan and Brains might be needed out in the field, if anything else comes up." But of course, she'd do whatever she wanted. Always had.

Grandma Tracy nodded, promising nothing.

"Understood, Thunderbird 5. Take care, an' keep in touch. Island Base, out."

Her holo winked off in a shower of pixels, leaving him up there alone with Mini-Max and two injured females.

Thunderbird 5 in "flight" sounded and felt entirely different. There were all of the usual background hummings and beeps, but also a subtle, deep rumble, as her nuclear engines flared higher, to generate thrust. Metal, plastic and perma-glass creaked and groaned, flexing with sudden change in momentum. For a few minutes, there was definite up and down. Didn't last long, though. At John's direction, the station yawed northward, skimming the line between daylight and dark.

Virtual screens to his right and left showed Thunderbird 2 in flight, and security-cam footage of the tunnel wreck. Local emergency teams were trying like h*ll to get there, but were hampered by interference from a squadron of GDF rescue bots.

"Citizen! This is a restricted area! Are you in need of rescue?" they bellowed, blocking danger zone access.

'_Worst d*mn invention since Fischler's weather-drones,'_ thought John, disgustedly. If he hadn't known better, he'd have blamed Fischler for this screw-up, too. Sent a request to Colonel Casey, asking her to shut down the worthless rescue fleet.

In the meantime, he could access the tunnel's sprinkler system, and have it spray foam to stop any sparks from igniting a deadly blaze. Scanned for leaks and high-stress regions, as well; sending a horde of repair mechs out of their tunnel wall housing to shore up the weak spots. There were injuries, according to scan, but so far, no panic.

Sending his data to Alan and Lee in Thunderbird 2, John next called up a small side project: ACIDTRP. The single most destructive worm he'd ever coded, it was a monster with limited reach and lifespan. Given its deeply hazardous nature, any attempt to copy the thing would bring down the user's system.

See, among the things that John didn't like was other people's secrets; especially when hoarded knowledge could be used against his family. Dad was out in London, about to face a World Council kangaroo court, with Chancellor Shaw at its head. That made John curious, in all the worst ways. Made him start looking.

'_Big file you've got there, Chancellor,'_ he'd thought. _'Lots of encryption. What don't you want me to see?'_

Earlier, between this and that, carefully sorting through Shaw's private emails and click-trail, he'd snagged a few passwords. Those, in turn, had brought more, until John located the "soul" in the middle of Koschei's dark bundle: blackmail data. Stuff on every major world leader, plus Dad and Colonel Casey.

Funny thing was, somebody else had already been in there. John saw their traces and doings. Chancellor Shaw wasn't quite the free agent be believed himself to be… but that didn't make him less of a threat or a bastard.

One of his virtual side panels flashed, drawing the astronaut's attention. The F.R.O.S.T weather control satellite hove into view, high above the worst polar storm he'd ever seen. A violent, counterclockwise maelstrom of hail, lightning and hurricane winds, it covered most of the arctic. Well… _shit._ One tricky thing at a time.

Cracking into Shaw's secret files took a few minutes of added fiddling. He hadn't done it before, to avoid detection and keep Shaw from changing his passwords. Now, though, John got in and got ready to upload ACIDTRP, preparing to set the worm loose to destroy every file it encountered. Then, y'know, just for fun, he intended to copy Shaw's personal finance records onto a public database.

Five, the Eos analogue he'd met in the future, had told him Sebastian Shaw was the linchpin. Drag him out, draw his fangs, change history. Not that John needed encouragement. Two taps of the virtual keypad set a virulent worm loose to wreak utter havoc.

As for backup files, he took care of those by placing a tracer on the data. Should anything similar pop up again, _anywhere,_ ACIDTRP would revive and devour it utterly. Might or might not help Dad. Too early to tell. If not… if Shaw had something on paper hardcopy… he'd have to call Parker. His fellow "Data Acquisition Artist" could seize things that John could not. They'd worked together, before.

This was a part of his doings, along with maneuvering Thunderbird 5. The rest of John's attention was back on that tunnel, as well as up _there,_ contacting F.R.O.S.T-sat. Should have been a cinch to log in and alter its coding to end that storm… only someone had messed with the satellite's programming. Instead of just calming and shifting the northern Jetstream, it had diverted ionosphere power to stir up a Godawful tempest. Wouldn't respond to command _or_ let him contact the weather station.

Hitting his wrist comm, John said,

"Island Base, from Thunderbird 5. I'm onsite, and yeah… it's not a natural storm. Something's gone wrong, down there. On my way to investigate."

He had no way of knowing that Havok and Fuse were listening in, armed to the teeth and ready to carve up a Tracy.


	9. Chapter 9

In salute of the first responders. True heroes who get there first, at great personal risk. Meanwhile, I own nothing but a bit of imagination and a fondness for underdogs.

**9**

_Somewhat earlier, much further south-_

Perhaps it had just been an accident. Things like that happen, especially in vast, purely automated systems. At any rate, a routine signal was somehow corrupted and reversed; the mistake never caught, despite many layers of guaranteed fail-safes.

Cody Beech might have set things in motion, having been shoveling entropy away from a certain unlucky troopship, and slinging it everywhere else. Certainly, the mishap fit his M.O.

Whatever its cause, sensors in the Mid-Atlantic tunnel misread a critical signal, sending a robot freight train charging backward along the main track. Believing that it had been recalled for immediate safety upgrades, the freighter's limited A.I. sent it hurtling straight for Virginia station. This, just as a passenger train merged onto the rapid-transit level from a visit to Fun Land.

The freight train was an A-21 "John Bull", heavy and powerful, loaded with cotton and fruit. The passenger liner… a sleek, silver Hermes Racer… met it nearly head on. Hadn't signaled a warning or attempted to shift tracks, because there was no way to do all that in less than five logical steps. Almost nobody trusted complex artificial intelligence. Not the mechanical sort, anyhow.

Traffic mistakes weren't _supposed_ to happen, and were therefore impossible. Ignoring what couldn't be true, the Hermes never slowed down. Merging onto what should have been a clear track, it struck the John Bull's blunt, speeding aft and was decapitated in a violent explosion of metal, plastic and shattering perma-glass.

The lighter train's body was flung up and backward, looping over itself, between that big, charging freighter and the tunnel's curved ceiling. Electricity flared as the Hermes broke contact with its power rail. The luggage and transport car ripped open at once, launching baggage, grav carts and personal flitters into the tunnel walls at rocket speed.

That sudden, concussive blow flung luxury passengers out of their bunks, and stewards into the bulkheads. The din was **CRASH**_**\- screeeeech**_**-splintering glass- sharp crackle- long, sustained squeal** and (at first) cries of shock and confusion. Loud shouts tore the darkness and dust, as tumbled-out people called loved ones and friends, while both mangled trains ground to a twisted, spark-flinging halt.

All passenger compartments were equipped with mandatory inertia dampers. This had saved lives in those critical first few seconds. Once the main power failed, though (shut off on purpose, lest fire break out in the tunnel) people rolled and were flung in every direction, hearing over and over:

_"Please remain calm and await your steward. Service will resume momentarily. Star Line regrets any inconvenience and invites you to enjoy our selection of light snacks and complementary holo-vids. Please remain calm and…"_

No alarm klaxon, no flashing lights. Nothing to break Fun Land's patented magic. Many passengers were trapped in their sleeping cars, as crash-warped electronic doorways stuck shut. Others were out in the Hermes' gutted main aisle, but too shocked and confused to react. Modern folk were trained to stay calm and await assistance like good, peaceful citizens, not to strike out on their own or start _thinking_. That was a problem.

The cabin attendants were all Mark-4 androids designed to resemble beloved movie characters. Only three of these… Princess Aurora of the Family Adventure Carriage, Roy Batty from Sci-Fi Transport and Boromir of the Fantasy Caravan… survived the wreck.

All three were hospitality models; designed to interact with guests, sustaining that Fun Land atmosphere throughout the trip home. All were programmed to converse, entertain, corral lost children and perform basic first aid. They had not been prepared for total disaster, however.

After a few minutes, when no peacekeepers or Fun Land security drones showed up, the remaining attendants had no choice but to act… while struggling to remain in character.

Being quite strong (he was a mock Nexus-6 combat model, after all) Roy climbed through that pretzeled excursion train; prying open stuck doors and releasing worried guests. Did not have the most soothing personality, unfortunately. With his ice-white hair, blue eyes and grim voice, Roy commanded much more respect than affection.

"Mop up your cuts and keep moving. You'll be fine," he told the Sci-Fi passengers, adding, "Drop that luggage! Nothing here is worth your life, Sir!"

This, because some people would not let go of their carry-on bags. Humans had a phrase, he recalled: _herding cats…_ and their over-priced souvenirs. Anyhow, he made it out of his own bent-double car, shepherding twenty-three guests through the smoky passage, only to run into Boromir. The prince of Gondor was coming the other way with a flock of his own; sword out and scowling. They met in the upside-down dining car, a mess of torn cloth and shattered glassware.

"Blocked that way, too?" Batty demanded.

The tall, scruffy android nodded.

"It would seem so. But our combined might may prevail to amend the situation, good Batty."

Roy shook his head. Not meaning _'no' _but expressing disgust.

"Too bad Deckard isn't here. He's the d*mn hero. Try an outside hatch?"

"It is worth the venture, my friend," said Boromir, sheathing his blade in its battle-worn scabbard. To their obedient charges, he announced,

"Good people, Star Line 307 has met with an unforeseen delay. Please take your travel-calm tablets and follow us."

(That most of them had already done so was obvious from their slightly unfocused gazes and gentle, drifting cooperation.)

A small girl reached up to take his rough hand, just as an android owl fluttered into the car from a rip, up above. An overly fluffy, large-eyed red squirrel soon followed, chittering loudly. Like the effusively hooting owl, it could not speak except in Morse code. That was no problem at all, because everything else artificial shared the same talent. Hopping up and down in distress, the squirrel barked,

"Her Royal Highness, Princess Aurora, has received communication from International Rescue. They have dispatched a team to assist our guests."

"Excellent tidings," said Boromir, smiling briefly. With his hooded green cloak, lank brown hair and unshaven chin, he looked half a ruffian. "We must…"

And d*mned if he didn't know _what _they must do, besides keep their passengers calm and together. His twelve-hour orientation brief, thirty years prior, had covered none of this.

"We… must unite our charges with those of the Princess, and perhaps move away from this damaged vehicle. Broken parts are yet falling."

The owl cocked its head at a comical angle, hooting assent. Beside it, Batty said,

"Obviously, she's found a way out, or _these_ two wouldn't be here." Then, with the ghost of a smile. "All I am is a soldier. Lead the way, Gondor."

Boromir was programmed for emotional responses to Fun Land guests, not to his fellow hospitality droids. Returning Roy Batty's smile was a very new thing, one that felt rather good.

"I think that you must become more than a holo-vid warrior, and I, more than an ill-fated prince, if we are to save our guests, Roy."

Scooping the little girl up to ride on his shoulders, Boromir led the way to a twisted, part open door. Slim, strong hands were already at work from the other side. Bad angle; but working together the three cabin attendants got it open enough to start off-loading passengers.

That trembling girl-child was first through the door, and into Aurora's arms. The princess had drawn her blue velvet skirts up between her legs and through her jeweled belt, making a loose pair of pants. Stayed in character, though. With perfect guest-name recall, she embraced the girl, cooing,

"Princess Sydney, _there_ you are! How the king and queen, your royal parents, have worried for their missing little one!" (Aurora called nearly everyone princess or prince. It was part of her programming.) "Come, Poppet, let's get you back to Their Highnesses, who have refused the comfort of tablets until the safe return of their lost one."

Little Sydney was a four-year-old bundle of dark curls, snub nose and bright eyes. Burying her face in Aurora's long neck, she whispered,

"I'm sorry. Jus' wanted some chocolate milk, an'… an'…I gotted _lost!_ Please take me home, now?"

Aurora patted her small, heaving back.

"Of course, dear one. I shall escort you to Their Majesties, personally, directly everyone is safe off the train… and, guess what? International Rescue are coming! Isn't that grand? How _exciting!_ Perhaps one of their handsome princes will offer a kiss in exchange for your favour."

Like the other cabin attendants… Boromir, Roy and poor, dead Inspector Clouseau… she'd been designed to serve and entertain humans. With her long, golden blonde hair and merry dark eyes, she was the perfect fairy tale princess; able to keep hold of Sydney with one arm, whilst helping other passengers down from that steaming and settling wreckage. Greeted each person by name, too. Just a bit of trouble deciding what to say to them, though_. "Welcome to Fun Land,"_ or _"Farewell, may you live your own ever-after,"_ did not seem to fit. Instead, she went a little off script.

"Prince Lucas, how pleasant to see you again! Sir Squirrel will lead you to your family."

Or,

"Princess Sakura, what a lovely garment! So becoming! Please follow Lady Rabbit."

Strange, but it was being a very odd day. The Murder Mystery car was just behind the baggage compartment and had suffered great damage. There were serious injuries there, which band-aids and song could not remedy. Nevertheless, a princess must always be cheerful. She must encourage her people, whatever the trial.

With Roy and Boromir, she could remove the Inspector's crushed, impaled corpse and then bring out those guests too wounded to move without aid. But first, there was one last fantasy guest…

"Prince Frank, what a marvelous tan! You must tell me your secret! Follow Sir Owl, now, and he will guide you back to your tour group."

…and then, reaching up one more time, she found herself facing Roy Batty, who leapt from the car and then winked.

"Save the speech," he said, not unkindly. "It's just me. Boromir's gone for the pets. You say we've got help coming?"

He was standing quite close in that dim, smoky tunnel, staring at her with pale, intent eyes. Rather nervously, Aurora untucked and smoothed out her blue skirt. No easy task while holding a frightened small child.

"Yes. I spoke with John Tracy of International Rescue…Also, just now with Alan. Prince John and Prince Alan, from so long ago! What a wonderful time they had at Fun Land with their family! Do you remember them, Roy?"

Batty squinted, consulting his memory bank.

"2055?" he hazarded. "During the park's Silver Anniversary? Only Grant came into the Sci-Fi transport… but I remember them. Very kind people, even to _us."_

Then, gesturing up tunnel, in the less-blocked, freight train direction, Roy said,

"You're better at public relations than I am, Aurora. Why don't you get these guests away from the wreck and then triage them? I'll wait here for Boromir. One of those pets is a gen-mod rottweiler."

"Oh, dear," said the princess. "Well, there are maintenance crawlways in which we might separately place cats and dogs. I _do_ hope that International Rescue come soon… some here are gravely injured, and my conversational mode does not extend to anything more complex than fussy eaters, delays, bumps and bruises."

Roy touched her slim, abraded shoulder, surprising them both.

"You'll do fine," he told her. "Replay and absorb what you've heard all those years on the train. Be more than they made you, Aurora. We're not onstage, now. This is for real."

The small girl she'd been holding tugged at her lacy peaked collar.

"Princess, I gotta go potty," she whispered.

"Yes, darling. Of course!" soothed the lovely cabin attendant. "Bravely now, Poppet. Should you like very much to help me lead all these people?"

Sydney gave her a wide-eyed, child-solemn nod.

"Wonderful! I knew that you had the stuff of true heroes within you." Smiling at the child, Aurora found her a private spot, then set Sydney down and turned her back. Kept talking, to cover the noises. "I shall make an announcement, and I should like you to wave for attention as I do so, Angel-Girl. Can you do that?"

"Uh-huh!" Sydney promised, finishing her business, then leaping up into the android's embrace.

"I _knew_ I could count on you! Now, here we go, Poppet. Get ready to wave with all of your might, as no one has ever waved, before. Ready? One… two… _now._ Good people! Royals and Gentlefolk, all!" she began, raising that clear, sweet voice. "We must journey to safety, now. Please follow me and Princess Sydney. Help the injured, give aid to the frail, that all may journey successfully."

Sounded good. Only, the way was rough. Entirely blocked in one direction, a very tight squeeze past a jack-knifed freight train in the other… and International Rescue was so long in coming. Then, chemical foam began jetting from hidden nozzles, creating a slippery nightmare. Moments later, Aurora's short-range embedded comm chip pinged once again. Inside her head, she picked up a voice.

"Local response team, from International Rescue. This is Gordon Tracy. I'm in the water and on my way down. What's your situation?"

Aurora smiled. In her long, unfailing memory, he was still a tousle-haired scamp; covered in face-paint and candy-floss.

"Prince Gordon! How long it has been! What wondrous adventures you must have had!" He'd asked for a kiss at the character breakfast, and gotten a single, chaste peck on his forehead. She hadn't forgotten. Her programmed brain wouldn't let her.

"Wait, _what?"_ he blurted, "Who is this? Where are the peacekeepers?"

Aurora shook her head, slipping and leaping her cautious way past the mangled wreck of John Bull.

"Unfortunately, they have not yet arrived, Prince Gordon. There are only us: Princess Aurora, Boromir of the White City, and Roy Batty, a bold and courageous warrior. What shall we do?"

"Uh… hold that thought, Princess. I'm gonna have to consult with my, um… colleague." Then, after a moment or two, _"Shit._ He's not answering. Okay, listen, Your Highness… that is…"

_'Be more than they made you,'_ Roy had urged her. Now, pausing in her climb, daubed in blood and streaked with chemical foam, the android said,

"I am simply an excursion-train cabin attendant… but I can protect my passengers and save lives, Pri… Gordon. Please call me Rose. I shall bring the passengers out to rescue-access hatch 32, and then return for those too injured to walk. I kissed you once, on your fifth birthday, remember? I knew then that you would grow up to be someone quite special."

Miles above and away, speeding downward in Thunderbird 4, Gordon Tracy blushed. Yeah… he remembered. Last family trip before _everything._ Blinking rapidly, the aquanaut cleared his throat and said,

"Rose, I'm on my way. Be careful. Use your best judgement about who to move… but get everyone clear of the wreck who's in shape to travel. Hang on, I'm coming to get you."

Plunging his bright yellow sub into blackness and cold, crushing depth, Gordon Tracy sped to the rescue.


	10. Chapter 10

Sorry so long! I meant to write it and post it in pieces but work and life kept getting in the way. Will scrape up the courage to respond to previous reviews, once I've finished cleaning the kitchen. Thanks for your patience. =) Edited more.

**10**

_Severally located, in many place/times at once-_

Scott Tracy was a man in every sense of that short, pithy word, and he _would not_ let pain be his master. He'd claw his way up and back to the cockpit, whatever the cost to his safety or health. Gritting his teeth against pain and its smothering killer, the pilot growled,

"Something's happened at F.R.O.S.T… more than just malfunctioning satellite… John's going… going to need help."

In the bedside chair next to Scott, Virgil was doing his best to stay upright and focused. Helped a lot, having Emma right there. Charlie and Zara were present, as well; Chip having brought in a hand-coloured card, along with some biscuits he'd helped Zara bake. As a time-bending kid, though, Chip saw things quite differently.

_{The stress of Uncle Scott's warning and Uncle Verbal's pale face made his grip on the present grow slack. Reflexively, the boy grew taller; causing his clothes to pull tight and his viewpoint to swoop higher. Said Zara, (Dad's girlfriend…don't tell!)_

_"There, now, Charlie… it's quite alright, love. Why don't we set these down on the table, and come back another time?"_

_Only, Chip didn't want to go. He was a wreck-skewer, too, right? He could help make people feel better, if they woulda got well, anyways. Right, he could? 'Cause Fermat was doing okay, except for still learning to potty… ewww._

_And, it wasn't real hard, or nuthin'. Wasn't doing anything bad. Just speeding things up, like naptime, when he didn't want to lie down. So, you know, Chip pulled time toward him in just that small space, after grabbing onto his favourite and not-favourite uncles._

_Dad… well, Dad might get sorta mad, but Chip was just wreck-skewing. Just being a Thunderbird, too. At least, until somebody yelled and pulled him right back. Emmer, who wasn't his auntie, yet. So, he didn't hafta like her, or do what she said.}_

Virgil stood up a few seconds later, looking surprised and a little bit thinner. On the bed, Scott moved around some, crinkling linens and mattress. Neither was back at a hundred percent. Maybe eighty, in Virgil's case. Forty-five, fifty, in Scott's. Both were over the worst of that pain, though.

Charlie looked about ten years old; straining his shorts and blue tee-shirt despite all their built-in elastic. Hid his face behind longish brown hair, seeming all at once guilty, nervous and proud.

Gaining his feet, Virgil flexed that arm very cautiously. Raised it over his head, even. Emma stood by, looking pissed-off, concerned and relieved, but she kissed her man, anyhow.

"You'll need to eat," she grumped, digging a couple of biscuits out of the tin for him and Scott. "Fast-heals _don't_ include calories."

Virgil nodded, stripping his bandage and sling with one hand, shoving food at his face and at Scott with the other.

"Keep 'em coming, plus whatever else you've got," urged the black-haired pilot, around a big mouthful of homemade strawberry Jammy Dodgers.

Kraft rang down for a meal. When queried by Max as to possible menu, the young, scowling captain said,

"Yes. Food. All of it." Next she gave Charlie a complex and irritated look, reacting more as commander than aunt.

"Listen, kidlet," she told him, as the boy hiccupped older another few years. Might've been twelve or thirteen, by that point, still with a preschooler's mind. "Standing orders exist for a _reason._ They're in place because this is a unit. A crew. You can't just go off on a tangent and do your own thing. That's how plans fall apart, and people get hurt."

Chip swallowed hard, leaning back into Zara, who'd put both her arms tight around him.

"He meant no harm," said his almost-like-mom, smelling of cookies and ocean. "He was simply trying to help."

Virgil chewed up another big mouthful of biscuit and choked it down fast, without any water.

"That's enough," he said, reaching for Max's just-arrived tray. "Over and done with. We'll debrief, later. It's a reflex he's learning to control, Angel." The pilot made a point of encircling the scowling love of his life with that newly healed arm. "If Scott's right…"

"I _am,"_ snapped the still grounded fighter-jock.

"…then somebody's gotta go check. Max says that John isn't answering. And, uh… I'll make it all up to you, sooner than promised." (Wasn't only his arm that had got a new lease on life.)

Kraft shook her head, making a few strands of brownish-blonde hair slide into her narrowed green eyes.

"Shut up and feed yourself, Mister," she ordered him. "All I get lately is talk."

Virgil tried to laugh, kiss her and eat at the same time, resulting in a largish explosion of crumbs. Everyone dodged except Scott, who was just half-way healed. Still trapped in his bed by a stupid d*mn brace. Better than he had been, though. Able to handle the desk, he was sure.

When Brains hurried in, a few moments later, Scott drilled the engineer with his patented top-dog stare and said,

"Brains, I want out of traction, _now._ Get me a crutch and a flexible brace. I'm going to work." Maybe he couldn't yet fly, but he could sure as h*ll help run those missions.

"B- But Scott, you are in, ah… in n- no shape to leave b- bed," Brains protested. "N- New bone has b- been formed, by, ah… by r- robbing the remainder of your s- skeletal framework."

Scott had already levered himself partly upward, able to bend a bit more at the waist. Still hurt, some. Still wouldn't show it.

"I'm the best judge of my own condition and capabilities, Brains," he snapped, turning pain into fierce motivation. "Dad's not here, Grandma's busy, and I'm in charge. Understood?"

Dr. Hackenbacker hesitated, torn between what he knew was best for his patient and the needs of International Rescue. Health and safety won out. Taking his glasses off, Brains began polishing their lenses on his left shirt sleeve. His brown eyes looked smaller, without them.

"I m- must strenuously protest this, ah… this c- course of action, S- Scott. You are not fully h- healed and will do yourself further harm b- by attempting to rise from your bed."

He could see the med-scan readouts on Virgil and Scott Tracy, both. Saw also the probable cause of this miracle, Charlie. Scott leaned further forward in bed, tense and unsmiling.

"_My_ call, Brains. With or without your d*mn help, I'm getting up."

Only, Virgil had had enough. Turning away from Emma, sandwich in hand, he snapped,

"Not if I have you tied down and sedated, you won't. All the respect, Scott… you're in charge here, and everyone knows it… but putting weight on that leg might warp the bones and joints while they're trying to heal. You want to limp for the rest of your life?! Never be able to run or climb mountains again?!"

Scott took a sudden rough breath to respond, then stopped himself. Pounded a clenched fist hard on the mattress, instead, and turned his face away.

Virgil started to reach for his brother's broad, rigid shoulder, but something about the set of Scott's jaw held him back. The comforting hand stopped short and dropped slowly away. He could see Scott's reflection in the darkened TV monitor, from this angle. The others, except maybe Charlie, could not. Scott was crying, without any motion or sound to betray him. And he'd never forgive himself, or Virgil, if he knew that anyone saw.

Charlie reached over to take Virgil's big hand. Looking up at him, the wobbly, too-grown boy asked a question with only his dark, worried eyes. But Virgil shook his head, _no. _Meaning no more possibly dangerous "help".

Then, leaving a pile of sandwiches and juice boxes there beside Scott, Virgil Tracy herded everyone out of the room. His big brother needed time to sort himself out, was all. Time to get it together. That, at least, Virgil could give him.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_In space, over the high Arctic Circle-_

"F.R.O.S.T. station, from Thunderbird 5. F.R.O.S.T station, this is International Rescue. Do you copy?"

Third call. Third burst of blank, hostile static. Well, there were two ways into a stubborn, locked system. You could spoof the password and knock politely, handshake given, then wait around for admittance… or you could blast the d*mn door off its hinges.

Right now, John Tracy was inclined toward the latter because A: he needed access to the weather station, below. And, B: the satellite's damage was spreading. A wildly rippling jet-stream was wreaking all kinds of dangerous havoc, and it had to be stopped, right the h*ll _now._

Yeah, so… unbeknownst to most folks, Thunderbird 5 wasn't _entirely_ weaponless. The microwave generator that beamed her signals all over the world and the system beyond didn't _have _to stay mild and controlled. Work of less than ten seconds to refocus his main comm dish and boost its signal to _'weapons-grade_ _scorch'_. Used up an ass-load of power but sent an invisible microwave laser-beam flashing through space to burn the satellite's dish to a cloud of molten, shimmering slag. And, bam, problem solved. Nice new temporary constellation, too. John called it: _Next Time, You'll Listen._

"One down," murmured the astronaut, triggering his exopod's prelaunch sequence. No more back-ass-ward signal meant that things would return to normal, eventually. Only, he didn't have time to wait for the weather to clear. Not with a team of missing scientists down there, somewhere, maybe freezing to death. Every second mattered.

Pushing away from the main comm station, John called up a virtual screen and his forcefield controls. Figured it was safe enough to reduce the space station's shielding, this far north. There were very few commercial or GDF satellites in circumpolar orbits, and John had positioned his Bird to avoid every one of them. As for junk and micrometeorites, he'd just push the hull-mounted maintenance bots further out, armed with lasers and spot-shielding. Also, he had a plan B.

"Max," said John, reaching a hand forth to summon his helmet. "I'm going to set up a tight-beam, cylindrical forcefield straight through the heart of that storm. You'll be in charge, up here. Hold the fort while I'm gone. Want you to keep the tunnel open as long as I'm flying, but slam it shut to save power once I've reached the station. Keep your lens polished. Not sure what's going on down there, but something feels… off."

Comm silence he could have bought as simple equipment malfunction. But, no contact _plus_ a violent, dislocated jet-stream? Yeah. No sale.

Mini-Max chirped a long Morse code response, causing John to smile briefly.

"Yes, Mom," he joked. "I'll be careful. As Captain Taylor would put it: _relax_, it's not my first rodeo."

Mini-Max had a comeback for that, which John mostly chose not to translate. The buzzing small robot was in close contact with Shadow-Alpha's mainframe. They played virtual, 4-D chess on the regular. Also, Max had flown a crap-ton of missions with Lee. Knew him quite well.

Wisdom was maybe not the first thing that sprang to your mind, when considering Captain Lee Taylor. Loyal to a fault, skilled and courageous, h*ll yeah. Loaded with common sense? Best of all possible role models? Eh. Not so much.

"I'll be fine," John assured Mini-Max, adding, "Keep her fired up and ready to move. We've got situations in Delhi and the Mid-Atlantic tunnel to deal with, once I'm back upstairs."

Then, he got down to brass tacks and silicon; shaping and projecting a forcefield that extended from the lower ionosphere clear down to F.R.O.S.T station. Locking his helmet back on, the redhead glided across that big, noisy dome. Critically, in his hurry to leave, he forgot to call Base.

"Once I've hit ground, give me five minutes to get into the station, Max. Then shut down the forcefield and stand by for my signal. If there are casualties, I'll need to bring them back up in the elevator."

Max beeped assent, the slightly long tone of his chirps casting worry into his voice. But John was already moving. A sparkle of red at his wrist comm told him that Jaeger had decided to hitch a ride. Well… you could never have too much A.I. assistance, right?

Anyhow, maneuvering himself into the exopod launch tube, John set off. He smiled a little as the station's mechs locked him into that mobile, winged armour. Heard and felt the airlock cycle, as his heads-up display picked up the target and plotted a course.

The outer hatch spiraled open on blackness as deep and dense as a mine shaft, with the twilight crescent of Earth at one corner. Beauty so raw that no matter how long or how often you looked, you never filled up or got tired of staring. Could never find words to explain it all, either… except to O'Bannon, his soon-to-be wife.

Electromagnetic impellers fired John like a bullet, launching him out of the station. That roller-coaster swoop from accelerated climb to sudden weightlessness was still an incredible rush. Like skydiving from orbit. Which, y'know, was what he intended to do.

That storm flared below him, white as a frost giant; fanged and clawed with high, blizzard winds and wild lightning. John gave his suit and exopod a last, careful-quick systems check, then extended his wings and cut straight for the heart of a rampaging vortex.

No sense of up or down. Just station, Earth and part of the sun changing places around him. Only the sound of his suit's air pump and comm static, at first.

Took a few pictures of the maelstrom for later analysis… Brains would be interested… and then rocketed over, following his HUD's projected guide triangles to reach the force-tunnel. Ever been swallowed? _No?_ Well, John had.

Faint walls of flickering energy held back a shrieking monster; carving a five-foot radius throat through which John Tracy plunged like a rock. What had been white as an ice cream castle from space, was swirling grey ink, down below.

Sprites of St. Elmo's fire danced on his armour and wings, while John fell to Earth. He took some video, but lost comm. Too much electrical interference.

"Hope the pictures come out," he murmured. "Or no one will ever believe this."

Lightning flared in great, violet sheets. Thunder bellowed and roared. Wind screamed a mad song, growing louder as he closed on that cracked, icy surface. Switched his exopod's engine back on about halfway down the storm's throat, then began carefully slowing his plunge. Couldn't stop looking around because (in its own violent, death-dealing way) the vortex was beautiful. Like the Jovian cloud-tops, or blisterng, sinister Venus.

Then came the ground, all of puzzle-block ice slabs and, there, a domed station, blinking one forlorn red light. John hit the surface like a skydiver, flaring upright and running to kill his excess momentum.

Switched on his helmet beam and got oriented. (After tumbling down an ice-cliff. Less said, the better.) Next started crunching over packed snow drifts, watching blue shadows slide and ice crystals shine as he moved. Got no reading at all from the station; as though it were powered right down, or really well shielded.

"Jaeger," said John, keeping his voice down, "Uberprufen Sie die Station. Finden Sie heraus, wer Zuhause ist." Meaning, 'check out the station; find out who's at home.'

-_Ja- _said his bodiless spark of an ally. _-Ich gehe-_

And he did so; flaring away from John's wrist comm like a bolt of red lightning. And that's when the world came apart.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Somewhat earlier, in the turbulent Atlantic-_

Thunderbird 2 had swung low and dropped her pod, sending Gordon down to the water's green, heaving surface. Fell about thirty feet, then splashed down onto towering waves. The pod's shock absorption system kept him from massive internal damage, but nothing could block the subsequent spin-slide-climb-and-descent of riding those waves in a flat-bottomed tub.

Fortunately, Gordon Tracy was a pro at this sort of thing. In sim and real life, he'd done it all hundreds of times. Took him five minutes, tops, to lower the ramp and then launch Thunderbird 4 out into the ocean. Her home.

Then, while still shallow, he'd called down to the danger zone, expecting to talk to a GDF peacekeeper. Instead, he'd made contact with, well… his first real crush; a Fun Land fairytale character.

Now, nosing down through the frigid, cold sea, Gordon cut on his sub's floodlights. He could "taste" and "feel" the water around him through haptic feedback with 4's hull sensors. Picked up the usual sharp, bitter tang, along with a plume of metal ions and concrete dust from the tunnel. Sensed increasing pressure, as well, but nothing his Bird and his suit couldn't handle.

Bits of this and that drifted free in the water, caught in 4's golden beams. Strange, blind fish darted away, shocked into motion by the sub's onrushing bow wave. A few bigger things glided past on business of their own; whether giant saltwater crocs or massive sharks, Gordon couldn't say. Didn't want trouble, in any case, because he had (believe it or not) a princess to rescue.

Fired a comm buoy at a thousand meters, giving it time to _whoosh_ from its tube and break surface before saying,

"Thunderbird 2, from Thunderbird 4. Virge… I mean, Alan, Captain Taylor… I'm just about ten minutes from the danger zone. Call you guys back with the specs, as soon as I'm in range for a visual."

"Roger that, Godfrey," his uncle responded, holo popping to life right in front of him. "Get them evac floats ready, an' I'll have Alvin down at th' pod ta help reel 'em in."

Gordon nodded inside of his dive helmet.

"Yessir," he said, adding, "Looks like we've got some current-shift down here, too. It's not just the jet-stream that's moving around."

"That's weird," Alan cut in, sounding and looking confused. "I mean, F.R.O.S.T can't affect deep water or cause flooding in Delhi, can it?"

Gordon shrugged, peering around for the faint, wavering glow of a traffic tunnel's anti-collision lights.

"I dunno. Ask Brains or John. But, uh… I can't get a hold of him. You guys having any better luck?"

Alan's skinny blond holo froze. After a second or two, he came back with,

"No. He's not picking up, Gordon. I'll have Base boost the signal through Thunderbird 5 and get back to you. Meanwhile, don't chase any mermaids."

Gordon grinned at his brother's image.

"Little fella," he boasted, "Mermaids chase _me._ Just like all the rest of the females."

Alan's response was half snort, half exuberant raspberry.

"Whatever, Bro. You attract girls like a warthog gets…"

"You fellers wanna shut up an' focus?" Drawled Lee, cutting them short. His image shook its head in mock resignation. "Jus' a thought, but we ain't at home with our feet up, and most females prefers their men breathin'."

Lee had a point there, and anyhow, Gordon had come within sight of the vast Mid-Atlantic tunnel. Over a hundred feet high, it stretched out of view in both directions, hugging the muddy abyssal plain like a concrete sea serpent. Rescue Access Hatch 32, Rose had told him. About… twelve klicks due east.

"Got eyes on the tunnel," he announced. "Headed for hatch 32. Call you back once I'm inside. Don't do anything I wouldn't do." Which, y'know, wasn't saying much.

He couldn't see a whole lot with just his own vision, but the deep's sluggish, cold currents had to nose their way over the hump of that tunnel, causing vibrations that Gordon could feel. Cautiously, he leveled out and throttled forward, extending 4's twin, jointed grasping arms.

"Rescue team, from Thunderbird 4," he called out, switching channels. "Rose, I'm here. Have your people stand back from the airlock, in case something goes wrong."

Her bright, cheery voice tinkled back,

"Gordon! I knew you would come! I have arranged the passengers in groups of five. Are you able to take on so many, at once?"

All sorts of crude, smart-ass responses occurred to him, then, but all Gordon told her was,

"My emergency float capsules can handle six at a pinch, but five is probably safer, especially if some of those people are wounded. It's not a smooth ride to the top, Rose."

The aquanaut picked up muffled barking and speech, as though he were hearing these things filtered through _her,_ not a microphone.

"Like Cosmic Mountain," she replied, with a smile in her voice. "I rode it in orientation, many long years ago." Then, after a short, noisy pause, "There are rescue bots coming, Gordon. Roy has sensed their comm-speech. What shall we do?"

(Because everyone, even Fun Land cabin attendants, knew better than trusting a GDF rescue bot to save _shit.)_

"Uh… be polite, but hold 'em off, Princess. Keep them away from the passengers. And no, you don't need ah-ah-ah-assistance."

At least twice (that he knew about) those d*mn flying robots had half-killed somebody, when more than one tried to "rescue" the victim at once. Also, they'd attacked a few of his siblings and Gordon, himself.

"FAB-1 should be there in…" he checked his heads-up display. "…nine or ten minutes. Hang tight. I'll be down, even quicker."

"Thank you, Gordon. Your instructions are given. Boromir of the White City stands guard with his blade, Roy with a segment of track. I shall be most glad to see you, again."

Yeah. Someone had said that you can't go home again. That you can't recapture past magic. But Gordon had turned five years old at Fun Land, with all of his family… even _Dad…_ there to celebrate. He'd had a big chocolate cake with fat yellow candles, lots of presents, music and happiness. The most beautiful golden-haired girl he'd ever seen had kissed him, and he'd got his first miniature surfboard. Not much use in Kansas, but Mom had promised a trip to the far distant beach. Only, then…

So much good, so many fond memories were locked up in that merry, sweet, unchanging voice. He'd have found a way into the undersea tube if he'd had to use a d*mn can opener to do it. But Hatch 32 was right there, only partly blocked by accretions and rust.

Someone… John, maybe… had sent the tunnel's maintenance bots out to do housework. Those fast-moving spiders were chipping away at growths that had partially blocked Hatch 32. Gordon could go them one better, though.

Easing Thunderbird 4 up close, he extended her delicate, powerful arms. Sinking into the Water-Bird's systems, those arms became _his._ Plucked the stony accretions dripping down over the red metal oval, an act no harder than scratching his ear. Grainy and brittle, the rust-sickle growths snapped right off in his claspers. Easy.

Next, the aquanaut sealed up his dive suit, cut on his air, and then lowered the pilot's seat, sliding backward and down, into the grip of a cold, waiting ocean.


	11. Chapter 11

Hello, again. =) Thank you, Tikatu, Creative Girl and Bow Echo. Back in the saddle, at work, and having fun! Will edit and respond with alacrity. Edited more.

**11**

_London, former UK, in the chancellery's ornate Star Chamber-_

Jeff Tracy strode through those tall double doors, straight-backed and calm. Found himself in a large room with a deep-blue ceiling studded in silver gilt stars. One end of the packed courtroom was dominated by a great viewscreen, maybe fifty feet wide by twenty high; presently set to display scenes of London. At either side were long, serried benches. Seats for privy counselors and common-law judges, not the press or a jury.

Looking around, spotting no friends at all… not even Linda Casey… Jeff realised that this was much more than a simple inquest. Someone was out to shatter the Tracys and International Rescue, forever.

A single hard chair had been placed at mid-chamber, but the Colonel refused to sit down there. Whatever his fate, he'd meet it standing, because no Tracy _ever_ gave up.

Chancellor Shaw had a chair of his own; a throne-like seat atop a raised, ornately carved marble dais. Like Jeff, though, he'd remained on his feet. A very tall man with a wrestler's build, Sebastian Shaw had a face like a hawk; handsome, grim and hard. Dressed in a velvet and broadcloth suit more appropriate to an eighteenth-century gentleman than a modern politician, he had longish dark hair and glinting grey eyes. He was also, Jeff knew, not completely himself. Colonel Tracy had not forgotten the eerie conversation he'd had with Shaw, some months prior, wherein something _else_ had threatened him, using the chancellor's mouth.

Now, Shaw stood with his feet braced apart and hands clasped at his broad back, smiling without warnth; as a man will, who is about to make what he thinks is a finishing move.

"Colonel Tracy," he announced, in a deep and well-modulated voice, "We thank you for answering our summons."

The legal crew at both sides of the room ceased their rustling and whispers to lean forward. Jeff ignored them, saying,

"I was invited to give testimony regarding CSIR-2149, a rogue planet projected to pass through the solar system within the next hundred years… not to stand trial, Chancellor."

Shaw cocked a heavy dark eyebrow.

"Trial? You mistake me, Colonel. Of course, this tribunal shall be delighted to hear whatever you say about the alleged "rogue world". Rather unfortunate, however, that your source of information lies in some… inaccessible future timeline."

The chancellor's smile never wavered, nor did he blink. Instead, stalking to the edge of his carved marble platform, he added,

"A future where… you allege… one of your recruits chose to simply remain, abandoning his parents, his home and rescue team. Odd."

The viewscreen shifted to a publicity image of freckled, grinning Caleb Gonzalez at one side, with a view of his worried family, on the other. They were peering straight at the camera, apparently listening in. No doubt, Josh Kelly's mother was, too.

Jeff stood erect and alone in his brilliant dress whites; here because no other court would dare to accuse him, much less convict. Surrounded by nervous cabinet ministers and one vicious, silky-calm foe, the Colonel said,

"As detailed in the Island's records, Chancellor, Caleb Gonzalez used IR technology to access a timeline where he'd met a local female and fallen in love. That timeline ceased to exist when we destroyed an alien artefact, but Caleb couldn't forget Kaise. He wanted to go back and find her. Young men in love will do that sort of thing."

There was a faint stirring from the massed legal puppets on either side of him. Perhaps they remembered feeling that way, themselves. Sebastian Shaw's smile faded a little but didn't quite drop.

"So you say, Colonel… but where is your proof that Gonzalez isn't just dead, perhaps killed on one of your reckless "missions"? Records can be doctored. In the meantime, what we _do_ have is one missing recruit, and another one critically injured, sent home to be cared for by his grieving mother and friends."

Jeff inhaled sharply, taking half a step forward.

"I paid for a team of physicians to accompany Josh Kelly to his home in Canada, Chancellor. Also, I sent my best engineer, Doctor Hackenbacker, to set up a top-notch rehab facility. All of this, with…"

"Public and possibly misappropriated funds," Shaw cut in smoothly; that thin, brittle smile of his turning suddenly shark-like. At his slight gesture, the giant screen switched views once again. Only, maybe not the way Chancellor Shaw had intended.

Jeff was a speed-reader, able to absorb reams of data at a glance. What he saw on that screen was enlightening, to say the least. Chancellor Shaw's private financial dealings were projected up there. His secret, off-world accounts and dummy corporations, as well as a long list of bribes given and accepted… the detailed minutes of shadowy, backroom meetings. Terribly d*mning and revealing, all of it.

Nor was Colonel Tracy the only one to see this, because Shaw had his back to the screen and stood leaning triumphantly forward; unaware that his private affairs had been published, all the world over.

The privy counselors' murmuring gave way to shocked silence. Sensing that something was wrong (perhaps because grey-haired Jeff Tracy did not seem concerned) Shaw turned to regard the big viewscreen.

He recognized the pirated file at once. Went rigid and icy-pale, seeing exposure and ruin written large, right there in front of him. Tried to gesture the screen dark, but it would not shut off. Worse, as a glance at the courtyard security monitor revealed, every GDF news outlet was scrolling that same scarlet data.

"Gentlemen," Shaw rasped, his voice cracking slightly, "I believe that will be all, for now."

Shaking with barely suppressed fury, the chancellor started to say something else. Then a presence… the same that had seized him, before… took over. There in the Star Chamber, before the assembled judges and Colonel Tracy, the presence said,

"Very clever. You have permanently blunted our weapon."

A flicker of pain touched the chancellor's handsome face, as an unseen hand began crushing his heart.

_"Not over, Jeff Tracy,"_ he hissed, collapsing like an unstrung puppet. _"Not… for you or the vermin you've battled to shelter."_

The Colonel surged forward, calling loudly for medical help. Some of the legal crowd leapt over their railing to assist, but it was already too late. Shaw had been switched off; slain by the will of whatever controlled him.

There were yelling voices and hurrying guards. A GDF medical team took over from Jeff, who'd knelt down to administer CPR with the aid of a female barrister. No good.

The Colonel stood up and moved aside, feeling almost as helpless as he had on the day he'd lost Lucy. Shaw was beyond help, showing no pulse or mental activity at all on the medics' bio-scans. Gone, because an unseen master had yanked the plug, and because someone (John, almost certainly) had ended his usefulness.

Somebody touched Tracy's arm at the elbow. A dark-haired courtroom attendant.

"Colonel, Sir… there are reporters and camera drones coming. Would you wish to exit the chamber, Sir?"

Just a skinny kid in a cheap black suit; like Jeff, himself, when he'd talked his way into the Academy, all those years back. Intern, probably, in his first years of WorldGov indoctrination. Jeff sighed and then nodded, mourning things that he had no control over. Said, with a question mark at the end,

"Thank you, Mister…?"

The intern blushed.

"Mubarak, Sir. Ziyad Mubarak."

Jeff put a hand forth to clasp and shake that of young Ziyad, who was wide-eyed with awe. Smiling, the Colonel said,

"It's good to meet you, Ziyad. Call me Jeff. And, if there's a private way out of here…?"

There was, of course, and the dark-eyed young intern showed him the way. _Almost_ let him go without speaking further, but then, as Jeff was heading through Shaw's concealed private door,

"Colonel, Sir…"

The former astronaut turned around.

"Yes?"

"Back in Egypt… perhaps you recall, in 2049… my mother was just a girl, Sir. Just a student. A pollution sweeper lost control and would have crashed into Cairo, only you dropped aboard from a troop ship."

Jeff grimaced, remembering.

"That was a hot one, alright. The tanks were brimming with toxic sludge and one of its engines shorted out. Lee brought us in as close as he could, and I jumped like a fool. Missed the first time and had to be reeled back aboard. Got it the second time, though."

Ziyad smiled broadly.

"You saved many people that day, Colonel… but for me, especially, my mother Amina. She saw you in the distance and has never forgotten. Thank you."

Jeff smiled back. Chose one of his too-many medals and pulled it carefully off of his uniform blouse. Handed it over to Ziyad, saying,

"Give her this for me, please." Shaking hands once again, he added, "Sometimes we get so caught up in rules and government strictures that we lose sight of who we actually work for. Thank you, Ziyad, for reminding me."

The young man was shining-eyed. Speechless. All he could do was clutch that bronze medal and nod. Jeff clapped a hand to his shoulder, careful not to use too much force. Then, feeling better than he had in months, Colonel Tracy strode off and away.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Island Base, in the recovery centre-_

Blinking back tears he refused to acknowledge, Scott Tracy stared at a darkened television screen. His brother had forced everyone out of the room, leaving Scott trapped with his own bleak, savage thoughts.

Anything might have happened then. Anything at all. The grounded pilot had reached such a depth of rage, disappointment and sorrow that… had he been able to rise… Scott would have hobbled out to the beach he'd always run on, then limped into the raging surf. Would have battled the waves till they covered his head, forever.

Only, then that screen flashed; showing reams of shady financial data, followed by Grandma's stern, worried face. Blue eyes narrow as daggers behind her glasses, Sally Tracy said,

"Scotty, I hate like anythin' ta disturb y'r recovery, but this is important, and I ain't got much of a choice. I aim ta fix my special meal," (meaning the lone dish she could actually cook; a legend on Tracy Island) "…and that's gonna take me awhile. You know how slicin' them veggies and preppin' th' meat takes concentration, Boo. But I got three engaged boys, an' that calls f'r a real celebration. Long story short, could ya mind th' desk from y'r bed awhile? I c'n have Max set up a…"

_"Yes."_

"I mean," she continued, apparently thinking he needed convincing. "If it ain't too much ta ask…"

"I'll do it, Grandma. Send Max in with some remote screens and a comm relay, and I'll take over. You handle the feast."

There might have been a sheen of triumph in Sally's blue eyes, but if so, Scott didn't notice it. Less than ten minutes later, his recovery bed was the hub of a network stretching to space via Thunderbird 5, to the ocean through Thunderbird 4 and down to a crash-blocked tunnel with speeding FAB-1.

Work, as it turned out, was the best cure in the world. Especially with Max standing by to run errands and keep up a constant supply of hot coffee. See, on top of everything else, there was flooding in Delhi and mudslides in Rio de Janeiro, plus Dad signaling trouble from London, and the Pendergasts wandering loose in the jungle, pursuing the elusive bunyip.

Busy didn't begin to cover it, and job one was reestablishing contact with John, out in the Arctic circle, somewhere. Watching everything at once, with what felt like a hundred red-hot emergencies on his hands, Scott forgot about broken pride and crippling injuries. Forgot everything else but doing his job.

(Score one, Sally Tracy.)

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_In the high Arctic, near a silent and darkened F.R.O.S.T station-_

Tough to recall, afterward, but he thought that it happened something like this: Jaeger shot away like specular bolt, glinting redly off snowflakes and ice as he went. John took a cautious step forward, then half of another. Was still headed for the station, when a weirdly shaped snowbank erupted in front of him, sending daggers of ice in every direction.

A vast, armoured figure burst from the snow, roaring a thunderous challenge. Only, John Tracy was still in the grip of his space-reflexes. He kicked off the ice… and _didn't_ go soaring up into the air. Just tumbled forward, directly at that lumbering, bellowing giant.

Recognised Fuse, about a femtosecond before the big channeler's fist lashed out, grazing his helmet with the noise of a high-speed car crash. Not making solid contact, Fuse seized hold of an exopod wing, instead. Next called electrical energy out of the storm, pouring it all into John.

For a moment or two, the astronaut couldn't see. His HUD was fried; useless until it rebooted. A reflexive launch sent him surging back into the air, just as the forcefield cut off. Thing was, his environment suit was rated for Jupiter. Had stood up to Venus and Titan. Shit-for-brains was only a threat if John panicked.

He struck something, _hard;_ his suit momentarily toughening to absorb and distribute that tremendous, ringing shock. Side of the station, John figured, sliding downward then getting his legs underneath him, cursing the h*ll out of Goddam gravity.

Braced on one arm to lunge upward, again, only… cloth. That was uniform fabric he was touching, buried just under the snow. Couldn't see very well through blizzard-force wind, with a cracked and electro-fogged faceplate, but his gloved fingers touched an icy hard face; gashed forehead, wide-open eyes and mouth frozen in mid-shout.

His job was to save lives. He'd come to the Arctic to rescue a team of missing scientists… and he'd failed. Couldn't mourn because _A_: no time and _B_: grief was just a distraction.

Switched vision to infrared. Got enough of his view-field back to see Fuse's lumbering, flailing approach. Up here, body heat was tough to miss. A massive fist came plunging straight at him. John decided not to be there, when it arrived.

He twisted and ducked, instead; seizing hold of the giant's metal-clad arm. Then, he fired his exopod at a ruinous, waste-it-all burn, dragging Fuse into the howling, night-dark sky.

See, John Tracy was quite strong, in any case. Ran in the family. With a deep-space environment suit on top of natural muscle, he was powerful enough to dismember a maintenance bot, or half-tear the arm off a rampaging killer.

That leap didn't stop the fight, though, because John lacked the instinct to finish Fuse off. Instead of dropping the giant from hundreds of feet onto rock-hard ice, the astronaut tried to short out his armour and beat Fuse unconscious; landing blow after denting, damaging blow.

Wasn't enough. Fuse took hold of John's exopod, hauling himself high enough to wrap both legs around the still-climbing astronaut. His free arm clenched onto John's helmeted head and gave it a sharp, sudden twist. There was a crack and a flash. John went numb. Couldn't breathe or move, and then icy green mist drifted down like a smothering curtain.


	12. Chapter 12

Hi, there. Late post. Will edit, tomorrow. Promise!

**12**

_Far below surface, in the blocked Mid-Atlantic Tunnel-_

Noise and chaos, high-jetting foam and stinging, chemical smoke. Stuck in a recursive loop, the wrecked freight train attempted to start up and reverse course about once every fifteen minutes, filling the air with hot sparks and sharp fumes. Giant fans groaned and clanked overhead, not quite clearing the air.

In the midst of all this stood three android cabin attendants, keeping watch over nearly a hundred battered and traumatized guests. Not the time for an existential crisis, but one of them wondered: was he Roy Batty, rebel soldier… or just his shadow, brought to life to entertain passengers? It made a difference, because "Roy" could fight. A shadow could only pretend.

Standing in flickering half-light, armed but unable, the muscular android wracked his programming files for some kind of solution. Beside him, the crown prince of Gondor held a sword he could no more use than Batty was able to swing that twisted-rail bludgeon. They'd been formed and programmed to entertain, not engage in actual battle. Maybe the older rules, from back when their jobs had been held by real people?

From further up-tunnel, Roy sensed the electronic chatter of speeding rescue bots; reckless, over-powered constructs barred completely from Fun Land. In fact… Roy blinked artificially Nordic blue eyes, seized by sudden inspiration.

"Gondor," he shouted aloud. _"Initiative 27."_

The scruffy, unshaven prince blinked, then surprised Roy by grinning.

"Terrorist threat!" he just about whooped. "Defend guests and repel assailants!" Adding, with a sudden bold flourish of his sword, "To arms, men of the West! We are invaded!"

Aurora had got the same message, via thought-net. All at once, she set down the child she'd been holding and moved to stand between their guests and that swarm of oncoming robots.

"Citizens!" the rescue drones chattered in unison. "Do you require ah- ah- ah- assistance?"

They arrived as a horde, optical sensors glowing through whirling smoke and blown fumes. Long, jointed arms shot forth; ready to seize, tear and smash whatever their warped program felt needed "saving".

Trapped between the wrecked trains and that swarm of hacked robots, some of the guests began sobbing and screaming for help. _Not_ calm, _not_ safe, _not _happy, at all. Boromir strode forward, sword in hand. Lifting the horn of Gondor to his mouth, he blew a truly resounding blast. Picked up and passed on by every electronic device that could link to another, that long, belling tone sounded everywhere at once; from the GDF tower to Tracy Island, to Gordon's helmet and Thunderbird 2. Scott heard it in bed, and so did Virgil, flying north as fast as Brains' spaceplane could carry him.

Robot "rescuers" spun wildly out of control, striking the tunnel walls and each other as Roy, Boromir and Aurora leapt into battle. Initiative 27 meant that they could do whatever it took to save human life and preserve their guests. It meant they could fight, despite people's fear of armed androids.

The prince of Gondor blew three more long blasts, then let the horn drop on its strap. Began wielding his blunted sword like a club. Roy bashed all around himself with a segment of rail he'd peeled up and torn off. Aurora fought with her hands, snatching robots out of the air with the feral grace of cat. Some, she smashed down onto the tracks. Others, the princess pitched at her waiting allies.

Then another horn sounded, answering Boromir's call. A pink aircar swept into view, driven by a ferociously grinning old human. With lasers and speeding vehicle, he cut down a wide swath of robots, making space for a woman and dog to emerge.

As for Gordon, the young aquanaut had slipped from Thunderbird 4 and into that cold, crushing ocean. His suit automatically adjusted for depth by raising his internal pressure to match its environs. No regular person could have survived it, maybe not even his brothers. But Gordon had always been special; completely at home in the sea.

Now, he sped from the Water Bird's hatch. Beneath him, ghostly pale brittle-stars scrabbled along like bony cancers, stalking white mussels and clams; looking like hostile small suns, deep down where none ought to be.

With a flip of extensible boot-fins, Gordon crossed the distance from Thunderbird 4 to hatch 32, using Parker's patented multitool to break in. Cycled through the airlock with pounding heart and dry mouth, hearing Boromir's horn blaring rocket-loud through his helmet comm.

Should have spent at least a few minutes decompressing. Would've been smarter. Only, there just wasn't time, and he'd flirted with the bends a few times, before.

Trusting his suit to adjust, crossing his fingers and muttering scraps of prayer, Gordon Tracy popped from that over-pressurized airlock like a champagne cork, striking a robot. Broke his fall _and_ the malevolent drone. Bonus!

Tossing aside its sprung wreckage, Gordon surged to his feet and assessed the situation. Saw Rose with two male androids who could only be Roy and Boromir. Saw Penny and Parker, too, along with shrill, yapping Bertie. All of them battling waves of darting and zapping GDF rescue bots, trying to defend the drugged, huddled passengers.

Those flying, chromed nightmares had gone completely off the rails. Having once been hacked by the chaos crew, it seemed that the drones had reverted to attack mode… but Gordon had a trick for that.

"Brains!" he shouted into his helmet comm, punching a robot straight at the vibrating, juddering freighter. "Priority call! Patch into the horn's frequency and broadcast a shut-down code!" Then, turning to the bruised and slashed prince, "One more time, highness, with all you've got!"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Inside F.R.O.S.T. station, close to magnetic true north-_

He wasn't. Then, somehow, John Tracy once again was. Vision clearing of green, seeping mist, he came back to consciousness as someone flung him down like an oversized doll. Parts of his exopod scraped a concrete and metal floor, not ice… and people were arguing. Loudly.

"…y' want ta go an' do that for? We coulda used 'im, y' great, bloody lummox! 'Ee in't rode down in the lift!" A woman's voice, shrill and disgusted. A man's rumbling bass swiftly followed, sounding familiar.

"Only, 'ee were punchin' me bleedin' lights out, Evie! Six 'unnert feet in the air! I 'ad ta do it!"

…which led to a savage kick that John almost felt. Booted him into the wall, and a little more out of their sight. Some things were evidently coming online faster than others. He'd been… dead? Neck broken, killed in midair by Fuse, then ridden down like a glider?

Too upsetting to think about, considering that once upon a timeline, he'd already died testing one of Brains' cures. That had been his choice. A purposeful act. This time… Okay. Mistakes had happened. Wrong decisions got made. Should've just dropped the bastard when he'd had the chance.

His earlier statement, a briskly overconfident _"not my first rodeo",_ made him actually laugh. Would have got John killed again, except that, right then, some kind of horn sounded; blaring through every speaker and sensor at once. Loud, long and subtly hair-raising, it could not be shut off or ignored.

"Bloody 'ell!" shrieked Havok, from somewhere above him. "Not _that_ again! What th' fook's…"

At the same time, with half-closed eyes and turned head, John saw a trickle of crimson light that dribbled from appliance to sensor to metal floor-seam. Flowing his way, it gathered up like a thin, questing sprout; like a glowing and unsupported guitar string. Jaeger.

All the universe froze around them as that multi-dimensional string flowered into a single fiery eye. Hovered there, right by John's clean, repaired faceplate.

_-Sie sind noch einmal belebt. Das ist gut.-_ the A.I. murmured, having learnt to lower his voice. _(You are animate, once again. This is good.)_

"Ja," John admitted, trying and mostly failing to get up. Being not-really-all-the-way dead genuinely sucked, given the company he seemed to be keeping, these days. "Maschen Sie den Uberlebenden verantwortlich. Seine Gastgeber konnen nicht scheinen to zu bleiben." _(Blame the Survivor. His hosts can't seem to stay dead.)_

Stress, and the thought of Eos and Ridley unconscious above, forced John Tracy onto his hands and knees, through air like fiery syrup. After that, gasping like a winded horse, he got to his feet and stood swaying; still hearing the low-pitched vibrations of somebody's very loud horn.

Havok and Fuse, their faces contorted with rage, stood like statues not five feet away. All sorts of things went through John's mind as he stared at the bloodthirsty siblings, and thought of those dead folks, outside.

Sped up relative to the Chaos Crew, he could've cracked skulls or crushed windpipes. They fully deserved it, and who could say that it hadn't been self-defense? Justifiable homicide. Only… Dad wouldn't have done that, and neither would Lee, who was maybe a pretty fair role model, after all. Rubbing at the back of his neck, John ordered,

"Jaeger, kommen Sie in ihre Rustung und drehen Sie es ab. Kurz es. Verstehen Sie?" (Get into their armour and turn it off. Short it out. Understand?)

_-Froh-_ replied that glittering, reptilian eye, meaning: _gladly._

Then time swept back to normal, allowing John to breathe and speak freely again; sending Havok and Fuse crashing onto the metal-seamed floor, their armour sparking and outlined in vivid, blood-red.

Not wanting to look at that pair of vicious young killers, nor listen to their poisonous cursing and threats, John locked his helmet, told Max to turn on the forcefield and went back outside. Spent a half-hour digging folks out of the snow, before Virgil arrived with Jan and an army of peacekeepers. Laid the dead victims out in a row by the station, covering their faces with whatever cloth he could scrounge.

He'd gone there to save them but hadn't been fast enough. He was alive, and they weren't. Caught their killers, though… and maybe that counted for something. Later, his brother put a gloved hand on the astronaut's shoulder, more or less forcing John to look at him.

"You okay, Spaceman?" Virgil asked, as Jan took charge of the GDF peacekeepers.

John met his brother's gaze, then looked away. There was too much to say. Too few words to express what had happened.

"Yeah. I'm fine," he lied, thinking about Grandma's heaven, and how you had to die to make it there.

Virgil gave him a searching look, dark brown eyes slightly narrowed. He'd always had nearly the best BS-meter of all the family, second only to Grandma.

"You sure?"

Physically, yes. John had never been better. On the inside, well… he'd looked into seven dead, frightened faces. Had tried to say words that would set them at peace. Hadn't known what to tell them that mattered.

Back at the Ranch, John would have gone to the stables, saddled Apple and gone for a very long ride, out where the wind could blow away tears that nobody saw. In space, he'd have hooked up his tether and drifted off to stare at the Earth. Far above trouble and death. Here… maybe, just once, John told part of the truth. Opened up.

"No. I wasn't in time, and it hurts like h*ll. Or will, if I let myself think about it."

Jaeger had had to retreat to John's wrist comm, again, because his kind were illegal and there were GDF peacekeepers everywhere. They brought out Havok and Fuse, who spat at John, snarling,

"Next time, Pretty, I'll make certain y' bloody well _stays_ dead! Hear me?! I'll rip off y'r fookin'…"

Went on to describe some stuff that made Virgil start forward through storm winds and snow; only, John barred his way with an outthrust arm.

"Leave it," said the astronaut. "Too much else going on for me to waste time springing your ass out of prison. Let the GDF take out the trash."

Virgil released a tightly pent breath and then nodded, forcing himself to relax.

"Okay… but it's beach and beer night, as soon as we wrap this thing up. We'll get Scott down there, somehow, and conference."

"Sounds like a plan," John agreed, managing a brief, crooked smile.

But for now, there was flooding in Delhi and mudslides out in Brazil. Their sister was missing… they had a rogue planet to shift… and Gordon was managing GDF rescue bots, down in an undersea tunnel.

Yeah… pretty much business as usual.


	13. Chapter 13

Hi, there! =) Wrapping things up and editing, soon. Thanks from the heart, for reading! Edited.

**13**

_In the blocked Mid-Atlantic tunnel, near a serious, smoldering train wreck-_

Not all of the passengers cowered in fear. One of them, little Sydney, scooped bits of this and that off the littered ground and hurried forward; hurling chunks of metal and masonry at onrushing robots. Her hero, the princess, was fighting to save them all. Sydney was wearing a child-sized version of Aurora's blue gown and wanted to fight just as hard.

Her terrified parents might have shouted after her, but Sydney had never been good at obeying instructions. She was tiny, but fierce and determined. Now, scrambling along a deep concrete rail-bed, avoiding jets of steam and still-clattering wreckage, the four-year-old girl got clipped by a laser. Not cutting strength, or she'd have lost her arm. A victim-transport tag, summoning other bots to grab hold and rip.

Sydney flung her last missile, shrieking as laser "paint" heated the flesh of her shoulder. Six nearby robots slewed wildly around to face her, their optics locking on target. Then, they closed in on Sydney, chanting,

_"Citizen! Stand by for ah-ah-assistance!"_

Only, those hacked and dangerous bots weren't the only ones able to spot an ultraviolet target. Rose and Roy Batty saw it, as well. Reacting a second before Sherbert and Gordon Tracy, they took immediate action.

Over the rumble of pumps, hissing steam and that scraping, whirring jammed freight train, Roy shouted,

"Get the girl!"

And, somehow, he'd become their leader. Aurora responded with a swift thought-net flick. Then she began to run, displaying speed, strength and agility impossible to humans; powers normally blocked by obedience programming. Moving fast, she destroyed haywire robots on her way to young Sydney, who'd acquired another defender. A ferocious, excitedly yipping small pug.

The little dog had placed himself between Sydney and her attackers, growling and snapping with all of his might. Aurora sprang to assist, scooping dog and child up off the ground with the tremendous, leashed strength of an android.

Hunching protectively over those squirming little ones, Aurora rushed them to safety, dodging amid searing lasers and lashing pincers; occasionally dropping down into a battlefield tuck-and-roll.

Then Boromir sounded his horn for the third and last time, while far-off Brains sent a doctored signal to ride that long, booming note. The tactic worked spectacularly. Everywhere at once, the robots shut down. Just fell from the air like gassed birds or heavy, metallic rain; clattering onto the tracks, the wreckage and FAB-1.

"Cor blimey," grunted Parker, straightening up from his wrestler's crouch to dust off. "Not before 'and, was it? Give me a shot at their ruddy programmin' 'ub, an' h-I'll make certain the buggers stays offline, f'r _good."_

Gordon switched off his sputtering plasma cutter, then re-harnessed the useful (non-weapon) tool.

"You've got _my_ vote. The less I see of these things," here he kicked at a downed, half-melted carapace, "…the better I'll like it."

Penny had been using a purloined magnetic grappler to short out attacking rescue bots, about thirty feet away. Now she gave him a swift wave and smile before opening her compact to contact the GDF.

So much for the robots. With that problem solved, Gordon's business once again became rescue. He sped (not quite as fast or athletically as an android) back to those massed, waiting passengers and their three battered protectors.

'Roy' turned out to be a heavily muscled, ice-blond soldier with startling blue eyes and a crushing handshake. Didn't smile when he introduced himself by make and model, either. A thinker, underneath all his hindersome programming.

'Boromir' wasn't as tall as Roy. Just above Gordon's height, funnily enough; with lank brown hair, designer scruff and light eyes to go with all those recent scorch marks and cuts. Had a confession to make, too.

"I am not a genuine prince," he told Gordon, in a voice low and rough with embarrassment. "I… the character upon which I am based… was only the son of Gondor's _steward_, not her king. I would not have you misled as to rank, noble Gordon."

Tracy number four smiled at the warrior, while unstrapping his med-kit.

"The only rank I believe in, is what people earn by their actions," he said. "Far as I'm concerned, you've earned the right to call yourself whatever the h*ll you want to… Your Highness."

…which straightened the android's broad shoulders and once more set his firm jaw. Boromir had a lot to consider as he went off in search of Inspector Clouseau's remains.

Meanwhile Rose… Princess Aurora… stood amid her guests, holding a little girl and cuddling Bertie. A bedraggled, battle-scarred owl, rabbit and squirrel had gathered close, listening as their friend spoke comfort to the passengers.

Her sapphire dress was in tatters, the artificial skin of her face still repairing itself. It was with a pile of stewed, mixed emotions that Gordon Tracy approached her. Wasn't sure what he'd expected… fond memory had a way of painting everything in sunglow and candy-floss… but,

"Oh, no!" and a sudden, darting turn-away sure wasn't it.

Giving the child a quick hug, she whispered,

"Back to their Majesties, Poppet. Assure them that help has arrived and all is well." Then, she set Sydney and Sherbert back down. All this, whilst keeping her back turned to Gordon.

She did not want him to see her. Part of her golden-blonde hair was gone, but re-growing, and her body's mechanocytes had only just repaired a deeply slashed eye. Her gown had to be held together with a trembling hand. Beneath it, well… she had the blank form of a slim, sixteen-year-old girl, but not the reality. She was a life-sized, animate barbie-doll. Sick with embarrassment, too.

Gordon stepped around to face her, getting his suit open enough to reach in and haul off his yellow tee shirt. Wordlessly, very tenderly, he helped her to put it on over that slashed-apart blue-satin gown. As an android cabin attendant, Rose could have mimicked tears. She chose not.

"Thank you," she whispered, looking up at him with genuine, shy confusion. "If I can… if they allow me to retain a possession, I shall treasure it. How you have grown! Can this really be _you_, Gordon?"

She was perfectly, unrealistically beautiful. A cartoon princess, exactly the way he'd remembered her.

"Yeah… it's me, alright. I just got a little bigger, is all. You told me I'd get my birthday wish, and I did. I wanted to live by the beach, remember?"

Rose brightened up.

"The beach! I have often seen bits of it, from the tram windows! Is it truly wonderful to stand in the water and see birds, Gordon?"

It felt entirely natural to take her slim hand, as they went to aid the most in-need crash victims.

"It's what I live for, Rose. Swimming, surfing and exploring. Rescuing, too. Pays the bills, y'know?"

She could have gone with a canned line, keeping in character, but instead shook her head, sending long, golden hair swinging into her face.

"I have no bills to pay. I simply do what I was made to."

Only now, she'd gone further, done more, than her kind's programming should have allowed. All of the cabin attendants had, and that meant trouble.

Gordon had no time to think about self-altered androids for the next half-hour or so. There was too much chaos to deal with. People to patch, a freight train to shut down and wave after wave of evac-floats to attach to the airlock, fill up and then launch. Rose helped out, along with Roy, Boromir, Parker and Penny. Between them, they got nearly a hundred people up to the surface, where Alan and Rigby took over. (Having jet-boarded down to pod 4.)

What happened next was unproven. Off camera. A transmission arrived ahead of those tardy GDF peacekeepers.

-_Evacuate passengers to Brittany Station. Androids to be shut down and taken into custody. -_

Because, of course, they'd shown a willingness to do battle and think for themselves. They'd overcome their programming, just like their kin of the long-ago conflicts.

Penny's blue eyes widened when that message came over her compact-comm. Shooting Gordon a complex glance, her ladyship scooped Bertie back up and then darted away to intercept the GDF peacekeepers.

Five minutes, if that. Swallowing hard, Gordon draped his med-kit over his body-cam lens and turned to face the three cabin attendants. Hoping like h*ll that their orientation had included gestural languages, the aquanaut signed,

_'__Go__. Danger. Run far. Now.'_

Boromir started to speak, but Roy cut him off with a sudden, fierce silencing motion. Signed back,

_'Where?'_

Good question and a tough one to answer, unless… Fingerspelling rapidly, Gordon told him,

_'Find M-E-C-H-A-N-I-C. Shelter you.'_

He sure hoped so, anyhow. And the three were off, pausing only to snatch up the core of their shattered comrade, Inspector Clouseau. Rose hesitated longest of all, leaning in to give Gordon a kiss that she might have intended to land on his cheek, but that he, moving suddenly, caught on his mouth, instead. Tasted of honey and salt.

As a five-year-old boy, he'd fallen hard for a lovely android princess. There had been a party with cake, presents, laughter and singing. His mother and granddad had still been alive, and the biggest hope that his heart could contain was to live by the sea, forever. Somehow, Rose represented all that had still been right and happy, back before his world came apart, forever.

Gordon didn't dare speak to wish them well, because other ears than those on Thunderbird 2 (which had gone suddenly very loud) were listening in. Had to laugh at himself, though; thinking that all his life, he'd fallen for classy and beautiful blondes.


	14. Chapter 14

**14**

_In which several things are resolved-_

A ten-year-old girl… not Kayo, here, but Tanusha or TinTin… woke up in her sleep-tousled bed, full of excitement. No, not the bed or room that she'd spent her earliest childhood in, since coming home with Jeff Tracy. A tornado, striking in darkness, had taken all that away, leaving nothing but splinters and rubble.

They'd had to rebuild; house, barn, stables… everything. Still, as Granddad told them over and over, _stuff_ could be bought and replaced. People could not

Grant Tracy had lost his right leg at the knee. Was still getting used to that rubber and steel prosthetic, which he swore weighed over a ton. Grandma had suffered a stroke, and had trouble forming her words. No loss of steely command, though. Among the boys, Virgil had only one eye. Was wearing a patch, until a brown glass fake was made and delivered. But they'd pulled through disaster, a bit at a time. Suffered their losses and tried to move on.

Scott and John had had to shoot Summer, one of the mares. A shattered equine hip could not be repaired for all of their trying, so they'd fed her an apple, gave her some water and done it, while Tanusha crouched behind stacks of lumber, fingers plugging her ears.

Today, they'd be moving back out of their trailer "campground", into the newly built house. A two-story wood-and-brick ranch home, it still smelt of mortar and sap and fresh paint. Neighbors from miles around had shown up to help build it, just as Scott, John and Dad had turned out to help _them._ See, that's how you did things, in Kansas.

Now, Tanusha vaulted right out of bed in the cramped little room she shared with Alan. Changed hurriedly out of her nightgown, into jeans and a Hello Kitty tee-shirt. (No sleeping past dawn in the Tracy household.) Her little brother was still moaning and snoring, so she kicked his bed, urging,

"Rise and shine, sleepy-head, before Grandma dumps water on you, again!"

Alan mumbled something that sounded like "tunnel", then rolled back over and went to sleep. Oh, well… Some people were doomed to be lazy and wet, Tanusha supposed. Besides, everyone else was already up and moving. The trailer floor creaked and thudded with booted footsteps. Slamming doors and loud voices made the air vibrate like someone was blowing a horn.

Jamming her feet into red, sparkly cowboy boots, the girl hop-rushed out of her bedroom; racing to beat the next in that unending stream of tall brothers, before they got to the bathroom. No luck. Virgil had reached it first, shutting the door and locking it tight, just as Tanusha came pounding along the blue-carpeted hall.

"Hurry up!" she called out, thumping hard on that flimsy pine door. "I gotta _pee!"_

"Take a number," joked Gordon, who'd just appeared with his personals kit and a bright yellow towel. Of course, he could (and often did) just go outside to a private spot and there let it flow, being a guy. Tanusha was female, and stuck. Not _fair._

Then, Mom leaned through the end door and beckoned.

"This way, Sweetie," she said, smiling. "You can use ours, if it's urgent. Daddy's out in the yard, and I'm already dressed."

Tanusha put her tongue out at Gordon, then pivoted, scurrying over to the master bedroom, with its big, private bath. Being back in a ten-year-old body had its effect.

Mom kissed the top of her head when Tanusha paused to give her a grateful hug. She looked and smelt like an artist, in her paint-daubed tee-shirt and jeans. A young and _beautiful_ artist, whose golden-red hair was pulled back in a sensible braid.

"Thanks, Mom. Love you," Tanusha mumbled into the woman's soft stomach, thin arms squeezing tight.

She meant it, too; having got to know Lucy Tracy here, in this haven she'd learnt of through Scott's open mind. This amazing, incredibly real simulation. Accessed through the ranch training centre, the pocket world had given Tanusha a place to retreat, heal and think. Safe at home, but sheltered from hard, painful questions.

Mom fondly mussed her dark hair, saying,

"What a treasure you are. Five boys, and _finally_ a daughter!" Even if not exactly delivered the usual way.

Tanusha squeezed briefly tighter, then let go to scoot for the bathroom and blessed relief. Outside in the yard, she could hear Rusty barking, cows lowing to errant calves, and grandma ringing the food bell.

She picked up her pace, because latecomers were lucky to receive a few scraps at a table crowded with ten hungry people. Eight-year-old Alan often settled for cold, crunchy cereal, claiming that sleep was better than food. Tanusha knew better.

In a hurry, she dashed water and soap at her face, borrowing Mom's toothbrush to scrub, spit and rinse. Peeked through the bathroom window at rising light as she roughed up her face with a monogrammed towel. Saw the sun coming up over fields cleared of debris and uprooted trees. Saw the creek banks sprouting new cottonwoods; green and springy in fresh early sunshine. No ocean or mountain... but also no constant alerts. No trouble at all, but weather and family dynamics.

Having dealt with nature's demands, Tanusha next pelted from bathroom to kitchen, where Grandma was dishing up breakfast. Bacon, eggs, biscuits, home fries and pancakes with thick maple syrup. And coffee, of course; pitch black and strong enough to float a horseshoe.

Most of her family was already there, some of them scraping their boots on the back porch or leaning against the countertops. Granddaddy sat at the head of their small, oval table, kneading the join between stump and false leg. It still hurt him, sometimes, but he wouldn't admit it. TinTin could feel it right there in his thoughts. Wouldn't betray him by telling, though.

John had been helping in the kitchen, while Scott fed and watered the livestock. Her brother's red hair had been shorn just a few weeks before. (No ponytails on a son, with Jeff Tracy back at the house.)

That wasn't what caught Tanusha's attention, though. It was the unaccustomed way that John moved around their small kitchen. The way that he stared at Granddad and Mom. Clued her right in, that here was another visitor.

There weren't enough seats at the table. Some of her family ate standing up, including her two oldest brothers. There was lots of good-natured jostling, rough humor and conversation along with passed plates, until Granddad cleared his throat for attention; saying grace, once the family got quiet.

Big, silver-haired and still brawny, the old man said the same thing he always had, meal after family meal:

"We thank you, Lord, for your gifts, and ask to be made worthy. Amen." Adding, "Tuck in, before it gets cold."

Tanusha hadn't claimed a plate for herself. Instead, casually, she wandered over to help herself from John's. Stole a biscuit, bacon and blackberry jam for a sandwich. Meanwhile, there was enough clamour around for her to whisper, low and tense,

"I _said_ to leave me alone, give me time."

John looked down at her face, then away. Seeming dazed, he took in that crowded, noisy kitchen and boisterous crew like he'd never been there, before. Then,

"I'm sorry, Kay," he whispered back, sealing her hunch. "I had to be sure you were safe, is all. Grandma's been worried. Penny and Rigby, too."

Shifting topics, John mused,

"It's just like Scott told me. They're _here._ All of them. Like nothing ever happened."

And maybe, that was worse for him than for her, because he'd known Mom and Granddad. Had mourned them and knew what he'd lost. To be back… feel her kiss after so many years… hear Granddad's deep voice… must have been upwelling joy and cold-water shock mixed together. But John had started talking again, after handing over the last of his biscuits.

"I'm not here to make you come home, Little Bit. Just promised I'd find out for sure that you weren't in trouble. What do you want me to tell them?"

Good question. Tanusha shrugged, hurriedly swallowing a big bite of jam-sandwich, then washing it down with half of John's coffee.

"Tell them I'm fine and I love them," she decided aloud. "Tell them I'll be back, once I've got myself sorted. It's good here, John. It's safe. Like maybe our lives would have been, if Dad had stayed in the Space Corps and Mom hadn't died."

John nodded, pushing food around on his flowered blue plate. He'd never been a big eater. Would have replied, but then Alan stumbled in, looking sleepy, rumpled and creased. Late as usual, the youngest Tracy got cornflakes, milk and a lone strip of bacon for breakfast, along with a lecture from Dad. Gordon and Virgil were deep in conversation, meanwhile, considering how to put in a family pool, now that they'd learnt to mix and pour concrete. Scott was off in the corner, busy memorizing the Academy handbook. He'd start next spring, planning to train as a fighter pilot, rather than becoming an astronaut.

TinTin tuned it all out; leaning into her second-oldest brother. He'd come after her once before, she remembered. When she'd fallen out of the sky, John and Wayne had been there to catch her. Tanusha pushed that aside and made herself focus. She had to concentrate to read minds here, for some reason. Relaxing made all those thoughts fade into a warm, background buzz. And, usually, that's how she liked it.

Peeking through John, she explored what had happened back home. His engagement to Ridley. Scott's crippling injury. Their clones, planning to stave off the frigid end of the world. Dad's trial and the death of Chancellor Shaw. The end of her family's alliance with the brutal Mechanic. Too much to take in all at once. Much of it awful and scary, just like her capture by Nikorr Kyrano.

Yes, there was a real world out there, and someday soon she'd go back to it. Later, when she felt ready.

"Stay awhile?" she asked John, sensing something terribly painful, deep down inside of her astronaut brother. "There's a weird time differential. About a week here to one day, over there. You could work with the horses and get to know Mom. She's really nice."

He took a deep breath; sea-green eyes narrowing, slightly.

"A few hours, maybe," John told her. "If I'm gone too long, somebody's going to come looking. And something like this… Well, Dad and the rest need to know… but I'm not sure how to tell them."

Grandma broke through, quite abruptly. She snapped him with a kitchen towel, because there was still food on his plate, and people were starving on the other side of the world. Obediently, John started eating, shoveling bacon and eggs like a ranch-hand.

Tanusha stayed snug in his thoughts, watching numbers and field theory dancing with horses and spaceflight. Seeing seven dead, frightened faces buried in snow. Scott had been visibly wounded. Was trapped in his bed and hating it, Kay saw. John had been injured inside, where no one could see it but her. Not a lot she could do about that, except to send waves of calm, peace and rest; helping herself as much as her brother.

Together, they pitched in with Mom and Grandma; clearing the table as everyone else headed off to the house, loading the family pickup with their few remaining possessions. Lots of loaner furnishings, a few dishes and pans, blankets, pillows and library books.

Grandma hummed, which she could still do when talking was difficult. Mom chattered aloud about starting a new mural.

"Honestly," she told them all. "It's a chance to start over. There toward the end, I was allowing too much white space. Not enough dark, grounding colours. _This _mural will be more intricate. More involved, and each of us will be coded there. I'll find a way to set down our essence and lock it in paint on the side of a brand-new barn. What d'you think?"

John paused in drying the dishes to look at Lucy, his warm, alive, safe and really-there mother. He'd kept "accidentally" brushing her shoulder with his as they worked. Kept turning a little to watch from the side of one eye. Couldn't help it, any more than Tanusha, at first.

"All of us captured in code? Safe in a kind of bottle?" He echoed.

Someone had already done that. Meaning to trick and ensnare, they'd created something that now had a life of its own.

"Well," said their mother, reaching over to smooth his new, shorter hair. "More of a scene than a bottle. My way of celebrating the people I love."

Maybe she thought he was hurting over the horse he'd had been forced to put down. Anyhow, she embraced her tall, fifteen-year-old-son and kissed his cheek.

"Go help your father and brothers, Johnny. TinTin and I got the kitchen, with Grandma to supervise."

Kay rolled her green eyes at that because, _yeah_. Woman's work, blah, blah, blah. Pain in the butt. Nice to have a little family sexism be the worst of her problems, though. Taking the soggy drying towel from John, she whispered,

"A couple of hours, right? You'll at least stay through dinner? We can go for a ride and catch up on what's happened."

John glanced around at the trailer kitchen, already gutted of most of its gear. Reaching across to give Tanusha a side-hug, he promised,

"At least until dinner."

…Because, any longer than that, and he might never leave.


	15. Chapter 15

Thank you. Almost done. Suggestions welcome for the "decent meal" menu. Edited.

**15**

_Pod 4, in the swelling and rolling Atlantic, at none and the same time-_

The skies above had gone boiling-cloudy, influenced by that still-disturbed jet stream. The ocean was grey and towering; lifting, batting and spinning the big, hollow pod like a metal toy. Basically, it was the world's wettest, most violent roller-coaster, and (ordinarily) Alan Tracy would have loved every minute.

Only, he wasn't at Fun-land on a date, surfing the rides and eating himself sick. He was trying to do what Scott or Virge would have done, with only Wayne Rigby to help him. They'd ridden down from Thunderbird 2, which hung overhead like a green and rumbling storm cloud. The cargo-lifter's impellers made Alan's ears ring and his teeth rattle… but also took some of the edge off those hurtling, deep-ocean waves.

There was a foot of water sloshing inside the big pod, smelling of cold cabbage soup. Even through his helmet's filtration system, Alan could sense it. Too busy to much complain, though.

Float after bright orange evac float had come rushing up to the surface, like basketballs released from the bottom of the pool, back home. They broke water and leapt like broaching whales, crashing back with a huge, ringing _slap!_ It was then Alan and Rigby's job to get those floats open and offload their injured, half-conscious passengers.

So, yeah… maybe Scott could've done it better. But he had, like, ten-thousand years more experience. Upstairs, Captain Taylor held Thunderbird 2 steady, while Piper manipulated the magnetic grapplers. Together, they caught hold of each float as it surfaced, drawing the unpowered lifeboats up to pod 4's lowered ramp. At least, that's how the opération was _supposed _to go...

The hard part was, as each wave shouldered past, lifting and tilting and spinning pod 4, the ramp was first deep in the water, then slanted many feet over its surface; sluicing cold brine in torrents and cataracts. The noise of stressed, groaning metal, shrieking wind and surging water made speech possible only through helmet comm.

"Twelve degrees left!" Alan would shout, guiding Pip and the captain, who did not have his bug-on-the-windscreen perspective. "Hold on… waitaminit… _now!"_

And Lee would cuss a blue streak, shifting the yoke a hair or two, while Piper Austin slammed that mag-captured float up the ramp and into pod 4. Once inside, the fun didn't stop, because Rigby had to get all those disoriented folks out and safely stowed in the rear passenger webbing. Families with children, most of them. Newlywed couples, too, plus a big high school tour group. Nearly a hundred people, in all.

The stocky, blond Marine kept at it; calm and polite, but very firm.

"This way, Sir. You'll be perfectly fine, just hang tight to the webbing and snap your harness onto a tether-ring. Ma'am, I'll need you to step away from the edge, please. Not safe."

Like that. Probably nicer than Scott or John would have been, and tons more patient than Al, who'd lost track of how many dang floats came bobbing up before, _finally,_ Thunderbird 4 broke water. Late, because of some trouble with the GDF.

Private-time, beach stuff; not for discussion with bodycams on. They had a signal for that, and Gordon had used it. So, Al didn't pester when his aquanaut brother zipped into the pod.

Needing no mag lev, Thunderbird 4 cut on her jets and then skated over the ramp and onto her guide rails. Alan and Rigby kept their passengers safely out of the way as that small yellow sub came screaming out of the water, dripping-slick and venting exhaust.

Usually, Gordon stayed put till the ramp clanged shut, in case of rogue waves (it had happened, before). He had company this time, though, and wanted to check on his patients.

The ramp hauled itself up like a creaking jaw, closing on water and dancing reflections. Meanwhile, the aquanaut clambered free, med-kit in hand.

"How're they doing?" he asked, over helmet comm. Looked his usual energetic, slyly humorous self; like there was a practical joke or a backflip about to burst free, any minute.

"We'll need to get some of them up to the med centre, ASAP," replied Wayne, who waited till the pod sealed shut and the lights came on to take off his helmet. "Broken bones, contusions, blunt trauma and shock, mostly."

On the other hand, many of the crash victims were still under the influence of their travel-calming pills, and inclined to giggle or sleep. Others just rocked back and forth or clung to their loved ones. Some became seasick, as the pod's motion was still quite violent, and now they couldn't see out.

A small girl in a soggy blue gown got free of her harness and scurried for Gordon, asking loudly for 'Rose'.

"We missed someone?!" Alan blurted, going all at once cold with horror. See, in sim, once, he'd taken off too soon; left a rescue site before loading up all of its victims, and people had died. But Gordon just scooped the girl into his arms and shook his head _no,_ signing _later,_ off camera-view. Then,

"Hang on t' y'r favorite body parts," Taylor called down. "That tin can y'r ridin's about to get airborne."

Alan barely had time to start breathing again, when Thunderbird 2's grapplers took hold; clanging into place and then lifting pod 4 clear of the heaving ocean. Her pitch-sway-whirl-and-plunge motion ceased at last, leaving only a gentle vibration and pendulum swing. Now the _other_ half of their passengers threw up, causing Rigby to turn pale and slam his helmet back on.

Gordon was immune to strong smells and bursting to talk; it was stamped all over his plain, hazel-eyed face. Didn't do it, though. Too dangerous. Just took the little one… Sydney… for a tour of that big, floodlit pod, describing how Thunderbird 2 was pulling them straight up to her fuselage. Moments later, with a bone-jarring _**SNAP**_ and _**CLANG**_ the massive green Bird had them locked into place.

Gordon grinned at Sydney, whose brown eyes had gone startled and huge.

"Bonus!" he said. "I usually sleep through that bit. Never felt it from out here, before." Like his brothers, Gordon caught rest wherever he could; often, right in his seat straps.

"We gots swallowed?" the girl asked, looking excited, rather than scared.

"Sort of," he answered. "I'll explain, upstairs. Right now, I've gotta get back to work."

Together, Alan, Gordon and Rigby shifted their charges out of pod 4 and into the cargo-lifter's passenger hold. Piper came racing to help, along with Sam (Substitute Alternate Me) and Sylvie (who Rigby avoided looking at). The clones needed less sleep than _John,_ learned fast, and were already proving incredibly valuable… if a little bit awkward and blunt.

Pip gave Alan a hug before everything else; throwing her arms around his chest and crossing them in back for a full-frontal "love you" embrace. He tore his helmet off so that he could kiss the tall, violet-haired girl, who smelt of joy and fresh laundry.

"Thanks, Babe… you did a great job with the grapplers," he said, between kisses.

"I'm not the queen of sim-time for nothing," she laughed. "Buddy, I've logged so many hours, I could fly _anything, anywhere_, including John's exopod!"

_Uh-huh._

With her flower crown and olive-drab field jacket, Piper wasn't exactly in uniform, but nobody gave her a hard time about it. Left that to the GDF or the Space Corps. As Scott liked to put it, International Rescue wasn't a law-enforcement agency. They could have a life and stay individual.

Hugging his (over-confident) girlfriend, Alan said,

"Hold up, Pip. Slow your roll. There's a huge difference between simulation and the real thing."

At which Gordon (who really couldn't help himself) snorted rudely. Alan felt himself redden; flushing hot to the roots of his golden-blond hair. But Piper slipped gracefully from hug, to tight handhold; ignoring the grinning aquanaut.

"I like both," she announced. "Practice makes _awesome_… Right, Fly-boy?"

Which, y'know… Alan hadn't realised it was possible for a blush to actually burn. Was spared from having to respond by lots of work. Their passengers needed secondary triage and basic treatment, as Lee banked off for distant Brittany Field and the GDF hospital. Lady Penelope and Parker would be joining them there, to deal with the usual mounds of official red tape.

Gordon's story sort of got lost in the shuffle. Whatever it was, it had to wait for home and Grandma's one legendary, longed-for, genuinely decent meal. Although he hadn't meant to, Alan fell asleep in the rear crew cabin as they headed back to the Island; his right arm snugged around Pip. Lulled by exhaustion and engine-song, he drifted straight into dreams of laughter and food.

Couldn't remember Kansas, at all. And Wyoming meant no more than monthly trips to the ranch house, for training. There was mostly the Island… after which he'd spent nearly three years on Mars, building a colony. Maybe he didn't belong quite anywhere… except that, lately, home was wherever Piper Austin plunked herself down. Like a purple-haired girl and the sky were all that he needed. And maybe, that was enough.


	16. Chapter 16

It's going to be a two-part feast, located in sim and "real life". Suggestions still warmly accepted. Thanks, Tikatu, Bow Echo, Whirl Girl and Emmy, for all the good food ideas. Edited.

**16**

_Elsewhen and otherwhere-_

The new house was just big enough, with six shared bedrooms and a bright, sunny kitchen that held the whole crew. Wasn't a home yet, though. Wouldn't be that till the family moved in and brought it to life. That took all day, what with bringing the stuff they still had in the trailer and getting their new, store-bought furnishings off Granddad's truck.

They'd lost so much, that even with insurance money and careful budgeting, the parlor and stairway seemed bare. Or maybe they missed all the vanished keepsakes and pictures. Things that could not be replaced.

The boys and Tanusha worked all day, while Mom and Grandma got busy cooking. First meals were always important, and they wanted to do it up right. There were minor emergencies along the way, caused by rush and confusion.

Scott nearly dropped Mom's new piano onto his foot, but two-stepped aside at the critical moment, causing only a very loud jangle of keys. Gordon slipped on a ladder while hanging up curtains, taking a tumble that hurt his pride a great deal more than his tailbone. Alan, dashing back and forth between kitchen and barnyard, got nipped by Apollo, the big buckskin gelding. But then, he'd never been good around horses. Next, Grandma burnt three fingers moving a pie pan, having forgotten to put on her oven mitts. On the whole, though, the house got readied and dinner prepared, without _too _much unwanted drama.

And what a dinner it was! Sally and Lucy had pulled out the stops, making mounds of fried chicken, barbecued ribs, and buckets of mashed potatoes dripping with butter and gravy. There was salad, as well (for those who felt so inclined, or just didn't reach fast enough for the good stuff). At center table, a pyramid of fluffy biscuits and dense cornbread squares rested, flanked by blackberry cobbler and two kinds of pie: pecan and sour cherry. A giant vat of Great-grandma's five-alarm Mexican meatball stew and her special recipe deviled eggs sat by the steaming blue enamel coffee pot. At the other end stood a big, cut-glass pitcher of Mom's peach iced tea.

Under the circumstances, Grandad kept his prayer brief, not wanting to come between nine hungry Tracys and food. Even Tanusha sat down for this one, accepting a plate like everyone else. (Still pinched from her brothers, though. Some things don't ever change.)

John was still there, like he'd promised. Under cover of clinking ice, scraping forks and chatter, she hissed,

"Go for a ride, after dinner? We can talk, and catch each other up."

John should have said no. Would have been smarter than letting this place, these people, take more of a hold… but it was home, y'know? Without all the loss and those bare, empty spots at the table. Glancing over at TinTin, he gave her a cautious nod.

"Okay, but then I have to head back."

'_Log out'_ just didn't sound right, somehow. Anyhow, he fed Rusty under the table just like he'd always used to, managing not to get any stains on his book. Funny, though… Scott had mentioned a green-eyed cat, but they'd never _had_ one. Grandma was too allergic. Didn't see any cats. Figured that Scott had been disoriented by his kidnapping, and just let the matter rest.

After dinner, when belts were loosened and everyone who could still move had helped clear the kitchen, he and Kayo went out to the stables. There, plunged in the warm scent of horses, sweet feed, droppings and hay, John saddled Apple. The mare was still distressed by the loss of her companion, Summer. Needed a lot of attention and care.

"C'mon, Pretty Girl," he said to the strawberry roan, stroking her long, arching neck. "Let's go for a ride."

Gave her a few spears of carrot to munch, before leading her out of the stall. Not far away, TinTin was saddling Night Shadow, her gleaming black show-pony. With his flowing Andalusian-style mane and tail, his white star and gleaming rear socks, he was a beautiful animal. Seemed quite unaware that he stood several hands shorter than Apple, and was a gelding, to boot. Thought himself a lothario, fully in charge of all mares.

Tanusha kissed his nose, making a big fuss over getting him kitted up.

"Who's a big boy? Who's won more ribbons than any horse in Clayton County and almost the state? _You,_ Shadow!"

John shook his head. Females and horses, y'know?

Together, the siblings walked their mounts out of the stable and barnyard before putting foot into stirrup and swinging up into the saddle. The sun hadn't quite set. Chickens were still pecking, clucking and fluttering; avoiding Rusty's half-hearted forays.

Things were different, up on a horse. You sat taller. Saw further, almost like being in space. Felt like part of a strong, wordless team; communicating through knee-pressure and the occasional twitch of a rein. Of course, Kay rode English-style, but John didn't fault her for that.

Leaving home, they cantered out along the creek, slowing after a while, so that Apple and Shadow could nip a few treats as they went. Then, with the sun beginning to set, his sister said,

"Thank you for coming to find me. The first time, I mean, with Wayne."

John nodded, recalling events.

"The Mechanic tipped us off, believe it or not. We were still combing the tunnels under Yokosuka, when Kane told us where the Kyranos were taking you."

Kayo grimaced her borrowed, ten-year-old face, saying,

"I sort of remember the flight. There was a lot of… other stuff, attempted mental conditioning… going on. I got free, but I might've died in the fall, or drowned, if you guys hadn't shown up."

Might have been risky, but John ventured,

"He loves you. Rigby, that is. For some dumb, Goddam reason, thinks he's good enough for my sister."

Kay snorted, because at her current young sim age, that was just _weird_. Her emotions were all jumbled up with those of her preadolescent self by now, making Tanusha too wild to care about possible romance.

"Yeah. Tell him… never mind. I'll do it myself, once I get back."

Then, tugging Shadow's head gently away from Apple,

"What about you? It feels like there's something pretty awful in there that you're keeping locked up. Anything I can help with?"

A few late meadowlarks sang down the sun. Green wheat rustled its secrets, stirred by the wind, but the creek alongside just kept to itself, reflecting a red evening sky. Said John, staring past Apple's short, mobile ears,

"Like you said, a lot going on. Wanted to save some people, but got there too late, by probably two or three weeks. Hard to tell, when they've been frozen. Anyway, um… it seems like I have some trouble with staying dead. Got my neck broken by Fuse, I think… but it didn't last." There. He'd said it. He'd told what he didn't want to admit.

Kay's breath caught.

"Like Rigby," she murmured.

"Yeah. And for the same reason. I was forced to host the Survivor, up in New York. Less than an hour, but that's all it took."

His sister uttered a low, baffled whistle, causing both horses to swivel their ears and pull up a bit. Soothing Shadow, she said,

"So, now you're imm…"

"Not sure," John cut her off, double-plus not wanting to hear it. "Don't know how long the effect will last. I don't… want… to continue forever, Little Bit. I think… if it doesn't stop and I end up alone, except for the Hood and your boyfriend, I'll come back _here_. As close to heaven as I'm ever likely to get."

His voice sounded cold and detached, even to him, but it didn't feel like that; deep inside where his sister's light touch couldn't reach. Tanusha changed the subject, then, saying,

"A while back, when the Hood was trying to use me to get to the rest of you, I felt like Dad made a mistake, saving my life and adopting me. I felt like I was a wolf cub he'd brought home to play with the puppies. Only… I don't want to be like my uncle and cousin, John. I don't want to be a Kyrano. I'm a _Tracy."_

You couldn't lean over and hug very well on horseback, but her mind and heart were entwined with his own; raw wound meeting comfort, on both aching sides. Didn't solve any problems, really, but shortened the distance between them, again. Made their burdens a little bit lighter, for having been shared.

The sky had dropped to a deep, endless blue. Venus burnt like a lamp, just over the sun's molten trace. Fireflies came out to dance, making shimmering patterns of light while the nightjars started their creaky song.

"Time to get back," said John, pressing one leg into Apple, who snatched at a mouthful of grass before turning. Kayo's pony nipped at the mare, causing a scuffle of stamping, snorting and grunts which had got to be sorted and smoothed.

The stars were out when they got back home to that noisy, warmly lit house. There, John escorted Kay to the porch, kissed her cheek and then left; escaping before his fifteen-year-old self could take over. Hurt like h*ll, but he did it; knowing that someday, he'd have to come back.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tracy Island, somewhat later-_

Those who knew, showed up because they'd tasted Grandma's one special meal and dreamt of a feast, ever since. The rest… Penny, Parker, Zara, Moffy, the clones and the New Crew… turned up from sheer curiosity. None of those thought she could actually cook; not even with Lee pitching in.

Dad was a no-show, being out in London, gripped by another whole time zone. He sent them a message, though, ordering his sons and Kay to meet in his office. There, with the door locked and the window glass darkened, Dad's holo popped up; life-sized and flickering blue.

"Boys," he said, "Tanusha, if she's come home… I meant to say this a long time ago. Only, I never seemed to find the right moment. That, or I'm just a d*mn coward."

Being holographic, his image appeared to be looking squarely at each of his sons, from grav-chair bound Scott to restless young Alan. No Kayo, though. Not yet.

Jeff Tracy faced them in a white GDF uniform, stiff with medals and braid; face grim, voice deep and oddly subdued. He cleared his throat and spoke a codeword that sounded like "Hooch", causing the liquor cabinet to spring open. Inside the polished wood closet stood row upon gleaming row of his oldest, most treasured bottles.

"You may want a drink and a seat. Could have used a few belts, myself, when my father told _me_. That's the real truth behind why I showed up hungover, my first day at the Academy. It was either get drunk or go crazy." Those wide brown eyes… tinged blue by laser-glow… dropped a moment, then rose again to make contact.

"Bluntly: you're different. Stronger and tougher, able to survive things that would kill a regular human. You were born that way, because… before the conflicts, our nation wanted an edge and started experimenting to create more powerful soldiers. There were… a great many deaths in the process. These programs were secret. Completely black op, and they produced our ancestor, Jake Tracy, who managed to get away from the base. After that, the fighting erupted, and everything went to hell. They never found him in all the chaos."

His image took a projected breath, rubbing the back of its neck with one hand. Meanwhile, Virgil began pouring drinks. Even Alan got one, as Dad struggled onward.

"I've told some of this to Scott, already. He knows that a foreign program produced the Hood's line, the Kyranos. Tanusha, Princess… if you're there… you're my daughter. I love you and trust you. Nothing will ever change that or come between us. Not even the Hood." Jeff coughed, then, as though needing to hide his emotions. Getting on with things, he next added,

"I know you have questions. I'll try to answer them, the best I know how, because I had them, too. Only, your granddad didn't know as much. He was content to do what we always had. Stay hidden. Stay humble and secret. I _wasn't._" Momentarily fierce, he took another deep breath, then began once again.

"One: Who else knows about this? Your Grandma and Uncle Lee. Commander McCord over on Mars Base. That's all, I think, since the death of Chancellor Shaw."

"Two: Are there any others like us? Yes. The Kyranos, the Kanes, the Hiros and Beeches. A couple more families, as well. The ones we met at the council, Tanusha. Most of them are more distinctive than we are and less… able to blend, I guess."

"Three: Why would anyone _do_ that? Why would they try to make weapons from people? Because they were _terrified._ War was coming, and they needed protection. They'd already failed with the androids, who broke their programming locks and rebelled. The… well, United States Government, at the time… felt that they'd have more success with draftees. In a way, they were right. Except that Jake never wanted to use those new strengths to end life. He only wanted _out._ I…"

Scott reached across Dad's image and paused the projection; heart thudding hard in his chest.

"Okay," he said hoarsely, struggling for equilibrium. "In real life, I can't shut him up, but this is a d*mn recording, and I need to think. I need…"

"A stiffer drink?" offered Virgil, who was still holding the bourbon decanter. He'd expected to get and top off his brother's glass. Instead, Scott took the whole bottle; to h*ll with small doses.

John had been leaning against the wall with his arms folded across his chest. Now the redhead looked up and said,

"Kane told us part of the story, a while back. We didn't want to believe him."

But Gordon wasn't having any. Shaking his head, the swimmer let utter refusal turn into jagged, insulating fury.

"It's not true," he snapped; his voice gone low and harsh. "Dad's confused. The Hood got to him, somehow. As for Kane… c'mon! He's the frickin' _Mechanic._ Of course, he'd lie! Somehow, he baked up a freak batch of cyborgs, and now he's making crap up about us."

Beside him, Alan was breathing hard, staring blindly at nothing. Placing a hand on his brother's stiff shoulder, Gordon said,

"Come on, Al. Let's get out of here."

Virgil attempted to intercede.

"Guys," he said, speaking gently, "you can't run away from this. I was there when Kane…"

"The h*ll with Kane! The h*ll with all of you! It's lies, and I don't believe it!" raged Gordon.

"Ask Grandma or Lee," pled Virgil, as his two youngest brothers stalked for the door. "Dad said they know about…"

But he was talking to air. They were already gone. Virgil cursed. Pounded his fist on the desk, starting the message, again.

"…think that's why the other families don't trust us. They fought and killed their handlers, then completely withdrew. We got away, but stayed in the open, hiding in plain sight. Then I went and joined the Space Corps, against your Granddad's advice. Started International Rescue, after that."

"Boys, Tanusha… if I could have kept it from you even longer, I would have done that. Tried to let you grow up feeling safe and happy, not burden you with the truth… but the world wouldn't let me. I'm sorry."

Then, rather incongruously, their father's image whispered,

"Tracy, out."


	17. Chapter 17

A short one. Thank you for reading and reviewing. Will edit and respond, forthwith. =) See, a funny thing happened to me on the way to the keyboard. I fell in love with my characters, and started feeling responsible for their happiness.

**17**

_Tracy Island, late afternoon-_

They might have left Dad's office together, but they sure didn't stay that way; Alan rushing off for whatever fastness best hid his breakdown… probably Thunderbird 3… and Gordon heading straight upstairs to his room. Blinded by fury too painful, too volcanic for tears, he strode to his trophy wall and began tearing gold medals out of their settings; flinging them onto the carpeted floor. They rained down in dozens; Olympic and World Games honours he hadn't earned and had no right to display. Awards he'd _cheated_ to win, knowingly or not.

Cut his hand smashing through perma-glass to reach the 1500-meter freestyle gold medal. Pain briefly ending his rampage, Gordon stared at the thing which lay in his bloodied palm; heavy, rounded and smooth. That one, he'd beaten Royce Connor to win. His best friend on the swim team, Royce had taken silver. By _himself,_ with no altered genes or hidden abilities making it easy.

Reflexively, the swimmer's hand clenched round the beautiful medal, which was embossed with a pattern of leaping dolphins. Belonged to a better man than _him_, Gordon told himself. Drew in a deep, ragged breath that was almost a sob, making ready to hurl that stolen award off his balcony and into the water. Then he heard,

"Dad? Dad, I could talk t' you, please?"

_Charlie._ Of all the rotten times for…

Not turning around, keeping his face to the balcony doors and ravaged blue trophy wall, he grunted,

"In a minute, Buddy. I, uh… I'm…"

(Falling apart? Too gutted to think straight?)

"Please, Dad? I gotsa tell you sumthin'. It's 'portant, okay? _Please_, you gotsa listen!"

Gordon Tracy's broad shoulders straightened at that, and his sandy-blond head lifted. See, all of his life, his own father, the Colonel, had been busy. Away in space, on business trips and then simply vanished. Never around. Never available. Gordon had had to depend on his brothers, Uncle Lee and a series of swim coaches… and he'd be d*mned if he'd do the same thing to his own kid.

Stuffing the medal into a trouser pocket, Gordon turned around to see Charlie standing anxiously on one foot, then the other. Growing, too, which was never a good sign.

Scooping the boy up and swinging him through the air, Gordon plunked down onto a big leather armchair, with Charlie on his lap.

_"Bam._ Okay, Chipster. You've got one hundred percent of my attention. There is literally _nothing_ else in the whole world but Charles Anthony Godwin Tracy."

Charlie giggled, despite his obvious worry.

"Nuh-_uh!"_ said the boy, shaking his head so that longish brown hair fell into his eyes. "There's lotsa stuff, Dad! There's a chair an' a window an' Scruff…" (Who was never far from Charlie, for safety reasons.)

"You're right, Kiddo… but you're the most important one," his father cut in, starting to smile. "There might as well be nothing else, 'cause right now, you're all that matters. What's on your mind, Big Guy?"

His hand was still bleeding, but not very badly. Not if he kept it half clenched. Charlie squirmed nervously, going from about four years old to a sudden six-ish; borrowing mass the same way the Hiros did, Gordon supposed.

"Dad, there's a guy. I see'd him. A lots, I see'd him, an'… an'…"

Gordon tensed. Someone had infiltrated the Island? Gotten into the house, again? Maybe the GDF, coming after Charlie? Trying to sound casual, he put a hand on the boy's thin shoulder, saying,

"What kind of guy? Where did you see him?"

Didn't get a straightforward answer. Instead, Charlie startled Gordon by lunging forward to fling both skinny arms around the aquanaut's neck, burying his face against his father. In sniffs and hiccups, what came out was,

"D- Dad… it's muh- muh- _me!_ From a long time when I'm big! It's me, and I done sumthin'! He's sorry, Dad!"

_"What?"_ Gordon wasn't sure quite what the boy meant… and had there been a sudden motion, the hint of a shadow, at his balcony doors? The swimmer stood up, shifting Charlie into an easy carry grip.

His son was special; very powerful and often confusing, but a good and kind-hearted boy. One who tried very hard to do right, be a Tracy.

"Is… the guy here, now?" Gordon asked him, rubbing his son's narrow back. "Does he want to talk to me?"

But Charlie shook his head, face still buried against Gordon's neck.

"He jus' wanted a' see you again. Jus' misses you, Dad. Wants a' say sorry."

"I…"

Sorry for what? What had… what _would_… Charlie do? Crunching broken glass and splintered wood underfoot, Gordon crossed his room to the balcony and stepped through its half-open doors. Took a swift look around but saw nothing suspicious. There was nobody out there. Just a long drop past jungle and cliff face to pounding surf, below. Alan's balcony lay maybe a hundred feet to his right; the only other room at this end of the house. No one _there,_ either.

Yet… Gordon felt he was being watched, and the boy's grip had tightened convulsively. It was easy to disappear, when you could mess with time. Very carefully, speaking louder than he needed to, for just a boy and himself, Gordon said,

"Listen, Kiddo. I don't believe that the future's set in stone. I think anything can be changed, anything accomplished, if you care enough. Want it badly enough."

Years ago, that same philosophy had taken him right to the winner's podium, over and over. Thinking that way had brought him victory, cheering crowds, camera drones, fangirls and medals. Now, Gordon did his best to drive it into small Charlie.

"Chipper, I know who you are, and how you've been raised. I know you're my son, clean through. Mistakes and accidents happen… but Tracys get up, dust off and keep trying. Understood?"

The boy in his arms snuffled moistly, nodding a little and coating the side of his neck in slime. Somewhere nearby, maybe somebody else heard, as well. Someone who missed his father and wanted to see him. To both of them, Gordon said,

"I love you, Kiddo. You're still the best thing that's ever happened to me, and I'd do it all over again, to have you for a son. Now, go put things right."

Then the bell rang for dinner; blaring through the house like the Horn of Gondor. Grandma's big, special meal was about to be served. Not showy company food, but delicious, anyhow. The subject of myth and longing. Sort of a kitchen Valhalla.

"Ready to eat, Buddy?" Gordon asked, bouncing his son up and down to make him laugh. Like a true native… a Tracy… Charlie asked skeptically,

"Who's cooking?"

…making Gordon snort with laughter.

"I dunno, Big Guy. Why don't we go find out?"

He turned to leave the tiled balcony, casting one more look around at noisy jungle and rolling surf. Those medals never did go back on the wall… but they didn't get thrown in the ocean, either. One ended up back in England, delivered to Royce Connor; friend, teammate and gold medalist.

As for supper, well…


	18. Chapter 18

Eighteen is a beautiful number, in any language; diz-huit, deis-y-ocho, achtzehn... it's special. Not prime or odd, but it has its own kind of magic. I had to keep going for sure, till eighteen. Thank you for reading! =) Edited more, because 16's the perfect square! Although I don't like it as well. Too... cumbersome.

**18**

_Tracy Island, down in the kitchen-_

Having turned her back on the auto-chef, Sally Tracy stood amid stained, crusted pots and full pans; surrounded by cutting boards laden with peelings and emptied kidney-bean cans. Truthfully, her heart was high in her throat, because she did not often make her One Meal; the dish she'd served the first time Grant Tracy come over, and then again, after their honeymoon.

He'd been so handsome! Tall and fair-haired, with eyes like pieces of late-morning sky, and the deepest, kindest voice she'd ever heard. Powerful, too. Able to circle her waist with his hands and lift her right off'n the ground, in his more playful moments.

She'd fallen in love, directly he'd ridden up the drive on that old buckskin horse to bargain for honey and eggs. Hadn't much money. Was willing to work the place or trade a few bushels of wheat, but… _Lord…_ what a man! And, somehow, this meal was tied up in her feelings for Grant Arthur Tracy. Making it, drew him out of her heart's dusty shadows and brought him to life, just like he'd been leaning right there by the stove, sniffing appreciatively.

Sal had been working for days, letting memory surface like bubbles, whilst Scotty handled the desk. She wasn't alone, because Lee was there, too; cheerfully making his special-blend Texas barbeque sauce. Mostly out on the patio at this point, teaching them clones how to grill. But, inside the kitchen often enough to help her stir pots and chop onions.

He'd been very gentle, her Grant. Very careful, that first magic night. Only feller she'd ever known in that way… and now Lee was making it clear he was interested in more than just cooking together and afternoon walks. Not in no _unmannerly_ fashion. Despite his rough language and jokes, Lee Taylor was always a gentleman with her.

Just that he stood closer, lately. Looked at her eyes more directly. Spoke with a certain warm note in his voice that Sally still recognized, after all o' them years. He was a good man, with serious intentions. Grant would've liked him, she thought.

As if sensing Sal's mind, Lee waved at her, slinging sauce from the wooden spoon in his hand all over the patio and two startled clones. Sally shook her head, seized a clean towel, told Max,

"Mind th' stew!"

…and then bustled outside.

In a house full of rowdy boys, it paid to prepare for spills, and Sally never went far without her sewing kit and stain-removal gear. Lee was wearing Jeffery's "Kiss the Cook" barbeque apron, but he'd still managed to get sauce on his jeans, western shirt and face.

"Howdy, Beth! I was just explainin' the finer points o'…"

"Barbeque splatter paint? Looks like one a' Lucy's murals, out here!" she scolded, taking a towel to the worst of those stains. Sam… who looked so much like Scotty, she had to check twice… and Mark (same, only Virgil) had got the worst of it. Sally scrubbed them up, too, saying,

"Best believe no more'n half a' what this old reprobate tells ya… an' be mighty particular, regardin' which half."

Only, the clones were still learning how to interpret sarcasm… and freedom… and a safe, outdoor environment. They tended to believe everything told them, like it was straight up, brung from the mountain-top gospel.

"There is flawed methodology in the Captain's protein-searing technique?" asked Sam, looking concerned.

"Naw, Son," Lee drawled, looping a casual arm around Sally's slim waist. "Beth here's only flirtin'. Ya gotta develop a sense f'r women-folk's signals, is all."

Flirting? Had she been, _really?_ There was a cold beer on the edge of that smoking charcoal grill. (Lee would not stoop to using the gas model, and wasn't far from a brew, whenever off duty.)

Sally picked up the half-empty bottle, feeling chill condensation run over her fingers. Could've dumped it all on the astronaut's head, but instead drank a swift belt, herself. Set it back down again afterward, saying,

"Signals? I ain't flirted in forty years, Lee Cooper Taylor. I know my own mind. If'n a feller's got serious intentions, he oughta come right out an' state 'em."

Left him open-mouthed (and much cleaner) as she stomped back into the kitchen to good smells and bad trouble. Alan was there; red-faced and breathing hard.

"Sprout, what's the matter?" Sally asked, tossing the sauce-daubed towel at Max. Her youngest grandson rushed to embrace her, blond as Grant and nearly as tall. There was alcohol on his breath, she noticed.

"Grandma…" he said, then choked off.

"What is it, Baby?" Sally probed, holding Alan away to look in those miserable, sky-blue eyes. "Piper done ya dirty, or sumthin'?" There was no shortage of good-looking males about the place, and sometimes a woman got notions.

But Alan shook his head.

"No, Ma'am." His voice was cracked; strangled and raw, same as when Rusty'd died, all them years back. "I heard… Dad sent us a message…"

She nodded, growing suspicious.

"That's right. Asked y'all ta meet up in his office. What'd Jeffery tell ya?"

Alan had grown some, on that far-future Mars. Had developed a space-tan and deepened his voice… but still was her baby; the youngest but Charlie n' Fermat.

"He said… there was a government program to make special soldiers… that we're _designed._ Meant to be _weapons!"_

That last part came out in a rush, along with some tears that he dashed at with frantic-angry-embarrassed-clumsy haste.

"It's not true, is it, Grandma? He's confused, right? The Hood mixed him up?"

Sally lips pressed tight together as she thought over how to respond. Then Lee strode into the kitchen, maybe intending on declarations, at first, but quickly sensing that something was wrong. Like Sal, he forgot all about food.

"Ain't intrudin', am I?" he enquired, coming forward. Sal shook her head.

"No, Lee. Y'r welcome ta be here an' help me explain sumthin' that shoulda been told straight up and plain, a long time ago."

Her… well, "beau", maybe? Lee's heavy eyebrows lifted. The Tracys were like a passel of big, friendly hounds. They didn't have many what you'd call "injurious secrets". In fact, there was only one… but that 'un was serious.

"Want me ta fetch th' rest, Bethany?" he asked, growing suddenly formal.

"Yes, please," she told him. "I think that's a right good idea. Down in th' ring, I think."

Lee surprised her with a kiss, his bristling moustache grazing her cheek.

"Have 'em all down in two shakes, Beth," he said, reaching over to ring her electronic dinner bell. Got the lot: Scott, John, Virgil and Gordon (with Charlie) plus Zara, Jan, the clones, Piper, Lady Penelope, Brains and his family, along with the visiting girls: Emma and Ridley soon-to-be-Tracy. Parker turned up, as well, coming in from the hangars. Altogether, more people than the ring could hold without extra chairs, but Max saw to that.

Anyhow, Sally banished the holo-globe and surveillance cam with a wave of her hand. Would've called Jeffery… but figured he'd stirred up enough chaos, already. With Lee at her side like a wall, like an oak, she started to talk.

"This here's family business, and all o' y'all qualifies. Buddy an' Ellie, too, if they was back from chasin' their shadows, yet."

The boys looked worried and tense. Everyone else but Lee, a little perplexed. Grandma gave them a nod, saying,

"I aim ta just sketch th' outlines, 'cause you boys 've heard part, an' prob'ly wanta tell this, y'r own way. Anyhow, here it is: a long time back, prior ta them conflicts we're always bein' warned over, folks got scared an' a little crazy. They had th' science ta do all kinds a' dumb-fool stuff. Made android soldiers, robot space mines, weaponized rabies an' super-flu. But that weren't enough f'r 'em. They had ta go messin' with folks' genes."

Some of the boys shifted around in their seats (or their grav-chair, in Scotty's case). Their womenfolk, seeming to know without being told, took their man's hand and held tight, every one of 'em. Charlie, who'd gone to get tissue for Gordon's cut, climbed quickly back up in his lap; pausing only to hug and kiss Zara.

"I dunno how Jeffery told y'all… what he said," Sally continued slowly, "but one a' them altered Specials was Jake Tracy. He ain't volunteered, though. He got cloned off'n someone who _did._ 'Tracy' was a code name, see. Soon as he got hisself together an' figured things out, he escaped from th' base an' lit out. Got picked up by y'r more-greats-than-I-got-time-for grandmother Jessie, in her red truck. Rest is history. Y'r Granddaddy told me all this, afore he asked f'r my hand."

The room was perfectly silent, except for jungle noises, surf roar and wind. Late afternoon sunshine flooded the house, painting everyone golden as angels. Looking at each of her boys in turn, making contact with blue eyes, sea-green ones, amber and dark, velvet brown, she next said,

"Y'r daddy took it hard, when Grant told _him_. Guess maybe Granddad ain't put things too well. He weren't much f'r long explanations… but Tracys was meant ta fight an' protect a doomed nation. Maybe Jake didn't have it in him, nor my Grant, neither. But Jeffery stepped up, an' so have you boys. If you was ever designed, it was part of a bigger plan, an' you've gotten beyond bad beginnings. You've turned into heroes, y'r own way. You ain't fightin' ta kill. Y'r fightin' ta save… and I'm right proud o' that fact."

Funnily enough, it was Ridley O'Bannon who first broke the silence. Reaching over to push at John's unruly red-golden hair, she said,

"I knew something was up when you tore the arms off a spider-mech right in front of me, just trying to raise your hands. Thought it was the suit, at first, but…"

Emma quirked a brownish-blonde eyebrow.

"But there's something unusual about a guy who can lift me off the ground without breaking a sweat…"

"Or suspend himself one-handed from a broken railing, whilst lifting others to safety," added Zara, smiling shyly at Gordon.

"And leap from his aircraft in the teeth of gale-force winds, to enter and pilot a crashing aeroplane," finished Penny, giving Scott's hand a fond squeeze.

Piper, grinning, put in her bit.

"You couldn't get any more special and awesome to me, Fly-boy. I know a good thing when I see it."

Brains had been deep in thought, turning things over in his mind. Now, looking up, the engineer said,

"Th- This changes nothing, as far as International, ah… International R- Rescue is concerned. Except that if r- records exist…"

"They did," cut in John, leaning forward to look at his friend. "Past tense. I erased a whole bunch of pre-conflict stuff from Shaw's files. Parker went after the print records. We didn't examine them, though." Hadn't wanted to.

"G- Good. It is, ah… is b-better if WorldGov does not learn of th- this matter."

Beside him, Moffy held their son, Fermat; born too early and grown too fast, but here. Alive, thanks to the people who'd taken him in and given him purpose. He knew all about having secrets to hide and would defend theirs to the death.

The boy kept reaching for Moffy's glasses, delighted by the way that they shone in the sunlight. At least, until Charlie leapt off his father's lap to come over and distract Fermat with Scruff, a plaid-velvet biodroid rabbit.

Smiling at her big, gathered tribe, Sal took over.

"Anyways, I hope this sets any troublesome notions ta rest. Everyone knows that you boys an' y'r daddy is special _inside._ Where it counts. Now…"

Food smells, warm, rich and deeply tantalizing, had begun to waft from the kitchen and patio.

"Who wants ta help me serve supper?"

What followed was pure heaven, in the form of corn-and-bean meatball stew, barbecued Texas ribs, corn on the cob, spicy Frito-lasagna pie and Granddaddy's best creamy chili-mac. Mounds of fresh coleslaw and chocolate chess pie helped to cool palates, as did a bucket of peach iced tea. Plenty of frosty-cold beer, too. Nothing had got burnt, and folks came right back f'r seconds an' thirds. (Making her almost cry.)

The party lasted all night, moving onto the beach for a giant bonfire. Best yet, Kayo returned, slipping out of the shadows like she'd only been off on patrol. Grant wasn't there, nor Lucy neither, and Jeffery was over in London… but what they had left was good and important. What they still had was a family, come whatever life had to throw at 'em.


	19. Chapter 19

Many thanks, you guys. =) Will edit soon, and respond with haste. Edited!

**19: Epilogue**

_Tracy Island, one last time-_

After a night of feasting and fire, with knowledge too fresh and too raw to discuss, couples drifted off on their own. The family picnic cove boasted three shallow caves, a boat jetty and lots of space to wander, hand in warm hand.

Gordon sat at the edge of the lava rock jetty, still pleasantly buzzed; muzzy with too much food and cold beer. There was a sleeping small boy on his lap as he sat by the water; one arm around Zara, watching the sky slowly lighten. Heard the hiss and slap of the ocean, along with wind, fitfully batting at lines, flags and palm fronds. Behind them, the night's bonfire had faded to curling, pale ash and red embers.

It felt good, being with Zara like this. In her way, she looked about as close to his ideal as anyone humanly _could._ She loved Charlie and cared a lot for him, as well. Yet… was he ready to settle down? Give up the chance that someone better might come along? Bottom line: were comfort and love worth more than continued sexual adventure? It mattered, because Zara wasn't the sort to put up with an open relationship. He knew that. It was, pure and simple, make her an offer or kiss her goodbye.

In their wilder days, Virgil and Scott had had females aplenty. For that matter, so had Gordon. This was different. _She _was different.

Gordon shifted position a little, kissing the top of her blonde, sleepy head.

"You're cold?" he asked, when she snuggled in closer.

"No," the girl whispered back, not wishing to waken Charlie. "Merely enjoying the moment, while I'm yet in it." There was a bit of reserve in Zara's voice, reflecting that part of herself she held free, clear and strong; in case she'd been wrong to let herself love. Wish for permanence. Then,

"What makes you think I'm anything like a good bet?" Gordon challenged, speaking low and unsteady. "I mean, I've been around so many times, even _I _can't keep track. If it weren't for that 'stout, Tracy constitution', I'd have so many diseases by now, they'd have packed me off as a medical test subject."

Zara bit her lower lip to keep from laughing, but her crinkled blue eyes glowed with genuine fondness.

"As an investment or business venture, I must agree that you seem rather a risky proposition, Mr. Tracy. _However,_ you are also quite brave, kind and clever, if a bit over-bold. As to the rest, I presume that modern medicine is able to keep most of the, erm… "afflictions of Venus" at bay. Besides which, I am approximately ninety-seven percent besotted with you."

Gordon stirred a bit to shift Charlie's weight.

"Only ninety-seven percent?" he asked, feeling slightly injured; like he was losing his stuff.

"My wiser bit prefers to keep its own counsel," she told him, smiling serenely. "It is never advisable to fall in love with one's employer."

Fair point… but he had a solution.

"Then maybe you shouldn't _be_ employed. Maybe you should just live here, with me." And from somewhere, the word came, "…forever."

"To keep the home fires burning and tend the cradle, whilst you flit hither and yon, pollinating each fair, ready blossom?" she asked, assuming a mock-severe look. After all, her own father had done much the same thing (she assumed).

But Gordon just grinned at her, all at once boyish and open.

"That hurts," he objected. "I haven't pollinated since the last time Union Jack turned up. Not trying that again, either, since Captain-from-hell threatened to tie a knot in my, um… equipment… if she ever catches me aboard, again."

Zara was too well-bred to snort, but the sound she produced came perilously close.

"Dear, bold Emma," she laughed, shaking her head. "Ever the Viking shield maiden. Virgil will have his hands full."

Gordon opened his mouth to say something rude (but funny) then shut it again. After all, there were sleeping kids present, plus an amazingly beautiful girl, just now being gilded by sunlight.

"I think he'll enjoy it," he told her, instead. Recklessly (maybe the beer, the big night or plain lack of sleep, talking) Gordon went further. "Feel like taking a chance on _me?_ I'm not perfect… not very mature… and I make too many dumb jokes… there are handsomer guys… but I think I'm in love, and I don't want to miss my chance at forever-after."

Zara cocked her head, long blonde hair drifting slightly in dawn's rising wind. She'd got a few freckles, he noticed. No doubt from so much time spent on the beach. Even now, in her bright orange sarong and bikini top, Zara looked like a tropical goddess, with very blue eyes and a gut-punch smile. He found himself holding his breath, waiting to hear what she'd say. Then,

"My mum has been quite happy with an imperfect chap," she remarked lightly, adding, "Perhaps I'll have a go, as well. As Mum likes to say: love is forever a risk and _always_ the proper solution."

To which the only correct response was a first real kiss; shy, exploring and deeply tender. Interrupted by,

"DAD! Ewwww…! Yucky! That's _gross!"_

The two people Charlie loved best in the world broke off kissing, then. Gordon laughed at his son's indignation. Mussed his longish brown hair, saying,

"Give it a few years, Big Guy. You'll figure it out. In the meantime, what d'you say to Zara for a mom?"

There was nothing at all ironic, hesitant or reserved about Charlie's response, which could be heard from the house and (literally) stopped time. Because now, he had a mother as well as a father, and she would get papers, _too_.

It would be quite a month for weddings on Tracy Island… once John altered a few more top-secret files and had Eos jimmy the World Council's population algorithm.

First, though, having experienced life… learnt what it was they were meant to defend… the clones would take off in Thunderbird 7, the future-built Prototype. Three Maxes rode along with Sam, Mark, Sylvie and Matt, as the Tracy replicants headed for deep space, carrying a Higgs Boson generator aboard ship. Their mission, to locate and divert a rogue, massive planet. As a precaution, a mark III transport disk was installed in the Prototype's hold; meaning that IR would be there to help, should something go terribly wrong.

Very gradually, the Sim was explained. Introduced. Who went there most often? Gordon and Alan, who got to know and spend time with family otherwise gone. No one not already there could be imported, however. No wives, boyfriends or children. You could only visit, yourself; never staying too long, for fear of entire engulfment.

As for Jeff Tracy, a reconvened tribunal found him not guilty of embezzling public funds. Did hold him culpable in the case of Josh Kelly and Caleb Gonzalez, however. For that one, he received a hefty fine (reduced, when Caleb showed up with Kaise, to straighten things out). Was also sentenced to public service; teaching evening classes at the Academy. Could have been _much_ worse, so Jeff kept his head down, taught freshmen, and didn't quibble.

Later on, a mostly recovered Tycho Reeves came to the Island for therapy. Wound up collaborating with Brains to improve their transport disks. Dr. Hackenbacker had seen future versions of Reeves' invention and was able to give him a number of useful suggestions. There was a paradox in there, someplace, but not even beer and John could help them to fossick it out. Anyhow, there were other concerns.

A certain young man, grown guilty and heart-broken, continued to sometimes appear. Once or twice, Gordon spotted him, but never for more than an eyeblink. Nor would Charlie-grown speak. Why he was there… what had happened to send him repeatedly back… would remain a puzzle for many years, until the awful events of 2073, the asteroid mine disaster.

Beyond that, did three fleeing cabin attendants reach a mighty and dangerous Lord of Machines? Did he restore their companion and give them a place in his stronghold? Would they, like the clones, be restructured? Made whole? _Yes,_ because sometimes the universe listens, even to fugitive, masterless androids.


End file.
